📦 Hurry Up and Wait, Part Two
Catch up on part one first:
Where we left off . . .
It’s 9:46 a.m. Fourteen minutes until the open house starts, and I still have to shower; no skipping, as I’m desperately in need of one.
As I fumble furiously through various boxes in the closet and nearby drawers, I start to panic. I picture someone ringing the doorbell early, aiming for an advantage against the hordes, and picture how I would faux-calmly chirp through the intercom, “The open house starts at ten a.m., please come back then!”
It’s 9:52 by the time I step out of the shower. I try and fail to fold the wet towel as neatly as the cleaning crew did with the one already racked, and get dressed. I straighten the stack of flyers on the kitchen counter, then light the candles in the kitchen and bathroom. I confirm that two rows of mini water bottles, still and sparkling, are chilling in the fridge.
I exhale.
By 9:58, the living room is so immaculate I experience a pang of ghost-self envy, realizing the gap between how we could be living versus how I actually keep house while cohabitating with a husband and dog (spoiler alert: terribly).1 The walls are gleaming in their perfect fresh coat of Swiss coffee white, and the bathroom porcelain sparkles.
Three weeks of maniacal packing culminate in these two quiet minutes until the first arrivals. I sink into the La-Z-Boy. Somehow, miraculously and only by the grace of God, I pulled it off.
Now, I hurry up and wait.
I look down at my watch. Fifteen minutes have passed. Mercifully, time has slowed to a crawl, and I give myself permission to rest instead of rummaging through the unfinished boxes temporarily shoved out of sight.
Shouldn’t people be here by now? I furrow my brows and bite my lower lip. If you build a billion boxes, they will come, right? Right?!
In lieu of actual foot traffic, I start running through scenarios in my mind:
What if so many prospective renters arrive at once that I lose track of them as they scatter throughout the house?
What if one steals something important, like our passports?
What if I’m here alone, and a creepy man arrives under false pretenses? (Thankfully, my downstairs neighbor volunteered to be on-call for this purpose, while Michael keeps Ryder away from the house so he doesn’t scare potential tenants away).
By 10:17, a sinking feeling sets in, along with a premonition about how the next four hours and forty-three minutes will go.
It will turn out to be correct.