My packing deadline, — which was looming large — has, through an absurd chain of events, been extended to the end of May. Our original buyer, the one who wanted an implausibly quick closing, dropped out after signing the P&S. Evidently there’s not as much money in the world as we all thought. So, the house went back on the market and I did a little jig of joy that I wasn’t going to be out on the streets before the school year was over. More time to find a job, find a place, pack the stuff. Besides, selling a house in this depressed market is not supposed to be that easy, right? Something was bound to go wrong.
Back on the market it went, and I relaxed into the idea that the first sale was a fluke and now we were going to have to wait a while. I let all the apartments I’d been considering go, I stopped worrying about how I was going to get everything done. I figured I’d probably have another month or so to get things straightened out.
We got an offer four days ago and we’re off the market again. Closing May 30th. My reprieve has turned its back on me. Bastard.