Our lease is up at the end of May, so we've been thinking about moving. Right now we live in a tiny 640-square foot one-bedroom apartment in a complex that is somewhere between ghetto and super posh. We're pretty cramped, but we have enough closet space that we can make everything fit most of the time. Cabin fever started setting in a couple months ago, though, so Jay and I decided to see what else was out there.
I'm a firm believer that the grass isn't actually greener on the other side: it just looks greener from where you're standing. So when Jay started going crazy looking up apartments and comparing prices, I knew we would actually end up staying where we're at because we're both cheapskates and I was pretty sure we wouldn't find a better deal. But I figured after all the looking, we'd be happier with what we had because we wouldn't have found anything better. I knew that.
But we still went to several complexes, talked to friends and managements, and built an intense spreadsheet that compared every possible price factor and difference (okay, the spreadsheet part was Jay, but I did look at it). We decided a few weeks ago that we would stay in our complex, but that we wanted to upgrade to a 2-bedroom just so we'd have a little more space. We were excited and felt pretty good about it. I was even trying to talk Jay into getting a cat since we'd have a place to put a litter box.
And then Saturday came, and Jay wanted to check out one more complex. I'd driven past it before, and I knew it was out of our price range just from the appearance of it. But we went anyway, like so many complexes before, just to look.
And I fell in love. At first sight. Starry eyes, butterflies in my stomach, the whole deal. I had it bad--for an apartment. All I could do when we got home was sit on the couch and stare at the floor plans while picturing the apartment in my mind. I started visualizing where different pieces of art and furniture would go. I searched online for frames that I could spread over all the extra horizontal space/shelving we would be acquiring. I felt so good about it that I was confident our move was a sure thing.
Reality check: Jay was not. And I was sad. But I knew the more financially responsible choice would be to stay where we're at, so I figured that I'd get over my "crush" in a few days.
Wrong. I couldn't get it out of my head. I felt unsettled and uneasy. Everytime I reconciled myself to staying, the upstairs neighbors would turn on their TV really loud. I went and talked to our manager and told her we were going to stay, but then she told me that the signing deal we'd been counting on (the one Jay had based all his spreadsheet data on) didn't apply to us because we weren't new leasers. The difference in price wasn't huge, but for me it was the last straw. For whatever reason, I did not feel good about staying. And after talking to Jay about it, he agreed.
So we're moving. And I am so excited. I feel a little guilty; I'm not one to spend frivolously for unnecessary luxuries, but I really feel good about this. I'm not sure whether that stems from the comfort-and-convenience-loving devil on my shoulder (likely) or from peaceful divine confirmation (less likely); maybe it's a little bit of both. Is that possible?