Some Days

Apartment Hunting

Some days, like yesterday. I sit in my car outside the rental office and weep. And wonder if any of this is worth it. 

A friend told me about this apartment complex in the woods. With two pools. 5 minutes away from our current house. That rarely ever has openings. I hop on the website. Notice there are a few going that will be available January 1st. I do a virtual tour. Check pricing. Ask Dan if he can help me for the first 6 months. He graciously says yes. We are both ready to move forward into the next phase. I print the application. Fill it out in 5. Slip it into a royal blue folder pocket for safe passage. 

Yesterday was my first day of substitute teaching at the girls' school. But I’m not scheduled to go in until noon. So I drop the girls off first thing, run home to put salsa verde chicken in the slow cooker (because I promised to fucking eat) churn a coffee out of the machine, and fly to the gym for 9 am. The workout is hard. I’m meant to deadlift 155 but can only manage 135: 900 m row, 60 deadlifts, 60 pull-ups, 900m row buyout. I split my reps into six sets of 10 alternating. I growl at the burden of the bar as the pulley of my hips hoist it from the floor to just above my knees. I remember the information I’d stored from the week before: weight lifting is better than cardio for keeping the weight off. I reprimand myself for being so shallow. Remind myself that I am a warrior. That’s why I come here. I want to be stronger. For my girls. For myself. I push the thoughts away. How tight my workout pants are getting. How my face is filling the spaces in pictures it didn’t used to. When I honestly have no idea whether any of this is true. What is. Whether I’ll ever actually know. 

I can only do 5 unbroken pull-ups at a time. With each additional set, I want to quit. I grit my teeth and groan behind music and metal. I want to punch through a wall. For this to be over. The workout. The searching. The effort. The loneliness. It all. But women aren’t supposed to feel aggression, anger. I can only transmute. I feel the levee of my dignity start to creak. The heaviness of life as it pushes up behind my eyes and roars steam clouds through my ears. 

After 24 minutes and 13 seconds, the workout is done. I say goodbye and rush out before the river takes me first. 

I drive home and make breakfast: pan-fried mashed sweet potato, blueberries, almond butter, sliced almonds, ground flax meal, a drizzle of honey. Not enough protein, but not enough time. None of my clothes fit right. I find skinny jeans and a slouchy sweater and slide my rocket dogs on my feet. Type in the address of the apartment with the opening. The one in the woods with the skylight. The one that is mine. 

I pull into the rental office and spray an airy spritz of sandalwood across my sweater for good luck. I close my eyes and envision the administration I’m about to meet, excited to have me move in as soon as possible. Because this is the stuff witches do. 

I walk in and immediately want to hug the warm woman sitting on the other side of the desk. Her hair is long and white. Her eyes are earthen, tender, and understanding. I know immediately she has been through what I’m going through. We sit down, and she asks which unit I’m looking for. I say a two bedroom one bath. She says she has one without the skylight opening in December. But the one I want, the one on the top floor, is opening in January. I tell her I can wait. I thank her for being so concerned about the natural light. I do a lousy job holding back the tear that escapes from being seen by this beautiful stranger. She tells me she’s been where I am. She knows how scary it is. When everything is new. And uncertain. I take this as a sign. She asks if I have pets. I say probably. We talk about the deposit. The insurance I’ll have to bundle with auto. I take notes in my phone. Every fucking thing about the process of gaining independence slaps me like a frozen rag across the face. How have I remained ignorant for so long? 

Down to business: $60 cash or money order, non-refundable application fee. No problem. She tells me that all she needs now, is one month of pay stubs, proving that I make $2,820 gross pay. My heart drops into the heel of my left foot. My mind races. How? I’m only just starting a very part-time position. Subbing will never equal this much. That would mean 750 a week—full time at the rate they’re paying me. And besides, I’m only on my way there today. It will take me a month to show that, and by then my place will be eaten. 

She says that’s ok, there’s a workaround. All I need is an “Intent to Hire” letter. That states I will work x amount of full-time hours for x amount of pay. Signed by the employer they can call and verify. I feel the carpet yanked out from under me. There’s no room to figure this out as I go. Or for me to prove Dan will cover my rent for 6 months. Because the place is owned by a family, they have different requirements for tenants, and this one is non-negotiable. It has to come from me. I try to stay positive. Tell her I’ll get it to her soon. She says she needs it tomorrow, in order to hold the place for me—my heart pounds in my reddening cheeks. 

I promise to come by tomorrow. I close the big wooden door behind me. I place myself in the driver’s seat. Throw the pristine blue folder onto the passenger side. A chaotic spread of handbag and apple wrapped in paper towels. Bag of pretzels for my snack at school. I close my eyes. And the dam breaks. It breaks for me. For all the women who hit a million dead ends, banged their heads up against a million concrete walls. Trying to do what I’m doing now. In a world not cut out for the shape of us. In a world we no longer fit inside of, leaving the roles set out for us at birth. I shake my fists at the sky. Let myself be livid and bereft. In equal measure. Then wipe my nose, gather my wits, and make some calls to friends who have been here, too.