Facing The Truth

My inner optimist thanked him for caring. My inner pessimist got angry. How dare he give me false hope, talking about how nice he would make the apartment, when I had so little chance of getting it? Obviously, he was waiting to see if anyone better took the apartment over the weekend. My inner dreamer tried to figure out how to make the finances work, panicked over clutter, and considered using eBay or having a moving out sale like in Confessions of a Shopaholic. My inner fool felt sad about leaving the current apartment; giving up rent stabilization, temporarily forgetting about the baboon and Borat, the pests, the noise, the splinters from the floors, the insensitive super, the pampered alimony witches, and being surrounded by Golf - Umbrella - Toting - Type -A - Upper - East - Side - Jerks. My inner realist said you don’t have a prayer ; give up; this is not the right time, or the best situation for you. Over the weekend, I remained confused as ever. Was I more afraid of not finding an apartment, or finding one? My musings repeated themselves, as if I had selected “repeat” for the CD player in my head. In the rare event that he offers me this apartment, am I meant to take it? Is this the only apartment I may ever get? Is this my destiny? If he doesn’t offer the apartment, it wasn’t meant to be. Odds are good to excellent I’ll give up, accept my fate, and stop looking. I’ll be disappointed, but will I be more relieved than disappointed? Will I be devastated? Will he even call at all? This was like deciding whether to take a case to trial. Without an offer, there’s nothing to decide; you try the case and fate steps in. With an offer, you have a choice to make. I sat on pins and needles, waiting for an offer. Monday afternoon arrived, and the CD in my brain continued to ramble. I’m in limbo. No phone call yet. If he doesn’t call, he’s someone who doesn’t keep his word and I’m better off. If he calls and says no, I will be devastated. How many more times can I put myself through this agony? I must give up. I’ll be deaf, cluttered, and unhappy, but there's always next year. I feel trapped already. Must stop obsessing. Maybe check out Craigslist one more time. Search: done. Result: nothing. Note to self: If the good Lord, your real estate agent (and the only one you can trust), has not found you an apartment by August 31, it isn’t the right time to move. Accept your fate as a blessing, which it most likely is.Try to make it through the year without going insane. Get rid of your excess crap and save some money. 2:35 p.m. no phone call. Office mate asking, “Shall we make it like the medical shows? What time shall we call it?” Time of death of apartment search, dashing of all hope to live like human being in lovely apartment on Upper West Side, return to imminent loser status? Assistant saying giving up sounds so sad. Yes, it is. I should have known. If he were nice, he would have at least given me a courtesy call, saying thanks but no thanks. To keep someone hanging, hope seeping away every second that goes by. . . It’s cruel. Of course, they’re cruel. They’re in real estate. Whoever said real estate is happy, was nuts! This is worse than waiting for a man to call. None of them are worth it. Note to self: this apartment is not worth it. Try to relax, be positive, and enjoy rest of day. When shall I call it, totally? End of month, or when I get call from current management company? Man, oh, man. I hate giving up. I was so close to being Weasy Jefferson. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. It.Wasn’t.Meant.To.Be.Period. Loserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloser You big loser. Cheer up. It’s not the end of the world. It’s rude to not call when you say you will. It’s the way of the world. It’s NYC. Bright side: the good Lord wants you to have a pet, maybe. Or at least that option. And a bedroom. And enough closet space. And to have savings. Bad side: baboon. Etc. UGH. Maybe leave NYC? What a jerk. He could have called. Rip my heart out; why don't you? For a brief moment, I thought Dad was speaking to me through this man. Dad would have said all of those things. Was this a sign? Dad wouldn’t have gotten my hopes up, then left me hanging. Unless he needed to teach me a lesson that would make me see the big picture. A new record has been set. The oldest man in the world promised to call me and broke his promise. And it hurt the most. Maybe that’s why I went through the torture of liking and not getting the apartment. As a wake up call. But this is not making me feel any better. 201 W. 77th apt 14G time of death: 4:14 p.m. I give up. On this apartment. On the project, I’m not sure. Can you feel my devastation jumping off the page? Too sad to write. Tomorrow is another day. The bright side? At least I didn’t spend 50 bucks to be rejected. Or three hundred.