One manifestation of my anxiety and need to plan every minuscule aspect of my life is my tendency to get my hopes up and then to be crushed by the inevitable disappointment.
I've been looking at apartment listings on Craigslist since late December--when we found out Rob had the job--and I've found the perfect apartment about seven times. I have a running list of apartment listings in my bookmarks that I check and re-check day after day to see if they're still there. I look at the pictures and imagine where our furniture will go, what we'll do with the third bedroom, where we'll go to walk the dog. Inevitably one day the listing is deleted, or one of my inquiry emails is returned with apologies, because the house has been rented.
A few weeks ago we found the perfect house (again). There was an enclosed chicken coop, a jet tub, brand-new washer and dryer, and it abutted a huge mass of government-owned land perfect for our beast frolic time. I kept the listing in my bookmarks and checked it about 7 times a day to see if it could still be ours.
I found out yesterday that it was rented last week.
I feel disappointed, yes, but in a way also relieved. I felt like I was in a self-imposed prison of worry about this place; I was so afraid that it was meant to be ours and I was erroneous in not jumping on it sight-unseen. It's been so bad that my stomach has felt like it did pre-celiac diagnosis.
I was able to stop worrying about it for a good 10 minutes until I found a new place. And the cycle starts over once again.
It's been a real struggle to relax and let things happen as they should. Life and death do not hinge on us finding the perfect house, and if we find a somewhat-less-than-perfect place we'll make do because no matter what we have each other. And Cypress.
Wish me luck that I find a great place next week and that I won't totally lose my sanity in this move.