This is harder than I expected, selling a house. Oh, not because anything's wrong. In fact it looks like we'll have a minimum of two offers and this is before tomorrow's open house, which was to be the official date we're open for business, only six people snuck an early peek. We'll definitely sell the house, most likely by the weekend. Which is good. But hard too. People tromping through our house, our home, eyeballing our possessions. Making decisions, judgments, evaluations.
One guy who came by yesterday loved the house itself but ultimately couldn't get past the apartment buildings on either side. Which made me feel squicky somehow. Like: Hey, we've been living here for four years, are we idiots, then? I mean, I know. I don't like them either. And it was a difficult decision to buy, one I regretted and then didn't regret, then regretted, then resolved. I love this house. I hate this house. I love this house. Putting it on the market feels so poignant, feels so vulnerable.
Our realtor fielded seven calls this morning, many of them from developers wanting to know details about the grade of the land and how many units the property could hold. And the part of me that wants a clean getaway says, yes, let them all bid, all these builders, let them go into a frenzy over this desirable location, let them buy it for many thousands above our asking price, let us walk away with a bigger bundle of cash to start our new life. But the part of me that walks around the house smiling at the yellow walls and wainscoting and pretty fixtures wants to kick them out of the house with a snarl: Don't ever darken my doorstep again, you history-destroyer you! You insensitive churl! You're the people who have made the city ugly, you and your cement block apartment buildings on so many streets formerly lined with pretty Craftsman houses like this one. Smashing pride of place with the hefty blow of a wrecking ball.
On the other hand, a pair of women came by yesterday, their gazes caught by the for sale sign. From our realtor's description, I liked them. And it sounds like they fell in love with the house. Which is what I want. What I really, really want. For this house to be loved, not torn down. But this house is clearly out of their price range. They were going to head back to the bank to try and get qualified for more money, but hell. They shouldn't. Maybe we'd get our cash out this way, but they'd be in over their heads. I don't want to walk away feeling bad, feeling worried, feeling guilty for making a sale.
On the other other hand, five people (or sets of people) saw the house yesterday. Of those, two said no, one had already made an offer, one wants to make an offer but may not be able to (the women), and the final one asked our realtor if he made an offer right then, would we consider it? (Our realtor said, "Wait till Tuesday.") So it's not like the house is unwanted. But I can't shake the feeling that my house – and therefore somehow me – no, not me, my choices, my home, my intimate life – is being judged. It's like wearing your underwear in public, y'know? And asking people to buy it.
Weird feeling. Uncomfortable. Disquieting. I'll be relieved when this week is over.
Posted by Tamar at June 6, 2005 10:12 PM | TrackBack