It's Not All Butterflies and Rainbows

For the past year our landlords have kindly given us the pleasure of paying thousands of dollars to live in a 600 square foot apartment above a garage, but the main house recently went on the market and when we begged to go month-to-month until it sold, we were brushed off.

I thought when we were on the hunt a year ago that the rental situation was dire, but this year the supply has dwindled even more, the demand is higher, and prices have skyrocketed. We've followed every possible lead (along with every other responsible, fully-employed twenty- and thirty-something couple in the valley) and best case scenario, we'll be homeless for a month, house-hopping and depending on the kindness of our friends. Assuming our current best option doesn't fall through. Worst case, sign a Draconian lease in an exorbitantly expensive place outside of town, figure out how to cope as a one-car family, and hope the landlord lets us pack the house with ski bum friends in similar straits.

I don't care how small my home is but I want a permanent non-mobile place where I can keep my toys safe and prepare the same breakfast every morning. I love our tiny apartment and I love the neighborhood. It's a themed subdivision but the theme is so appealing: energy efficient houses filled with outdoorsy people, where everyone waves to each other as they bike by and friendly dogs run amok. Buying a home has never been so attractive but we're just not quite there yet. It's not the immediate fix we need and even if we were to start the onerous process, there's a low likelihood we could afford the house we want.

My worries have spun around in the rock tumbler of my brain until they're smooth and hard and invulnerable. Anxiety has my chest in a vise grip. Yesterday I felt too tired and sad and stressed to go to high school mountain bike practice so I just simmered in my unhappiness on the couch instead. This morning a coach sent out an email chiding everyone--apparently I picked the same day to flake that most of the other coaches did. This added some nice guilt and a heightened sense of obligation to my stewpot of unpleasant emotions.

I went for a run hoping to alleviate some of the choking anxiety. I followed a little guerrilla trail that I'd never explored before. The wet itchy grasses slashed my thighs and I felt leaden with hopelessness. I could barely muster up the energy to yell greetings at the megafauna that was undoubtedly hanging out nearby. ("Hey moose! Go away moose!") At a downed tree halfway up I halted, nonplussed, and had a big ugly cry. Even this small obstacle seemed insurmountable. Sophie stopped terrorizing all the resident squirrels and chipmunks long enough to come see if I was ok.

Eventually I got bored of standing still and kept going uphill, still crying a little. I got to the top of a minor ridge where the trail petered out and I studied some of my favorite ski lines across Stateline Canyon. They look steeper in the summer.

I started running downhill and all the bad thoughts that had been clinging to my brain got jostled around until they let go, leaving my mind serenely empty for the first time in a while. It wasn't much of a workout, and my legs developed little rashes from all the vegetation, but I got twenty minutes of mental silence. I guess sometimes that's all you can ask from a run.