Property Virgin Gone Wild

Today I went to see my first house.

Now, it's a funny (or perhaps perplexing) story of how I got to this point in my life. See, with our impending nuptials slated for next year, John and I have decided moving out from my sister's basement apartment would be beneficial for all of us. After all, the last thing we want to do is spend our honeymoon with Bowie and Avery hanging around us (not that I don't love the rascals, but, y'know.)

We talked back and forth for months about owning versus renting. I preferred to own, but John was (and still may be) a little queasy about home ownership. For the record, so am I: who really wants to be in debt for the next 30 years? But the interest rates really are too good to pass up right now. It wouldn't hurt to at least look.

My parents have offered loads of support, but their ideas of our lifestyle choice don't exactly jive with ours. Nevertheless, yesterday I spotted a listing for a cute house in Leslieville and got my Funcle (fake uncle) Simon, who's a Realtor, to arrange for a viewing.

We drove the neighborhood and weren't entirely impressed by the exterior. The next day it was sealed: this place was a painted hole. It looked like someone had gone to the effort of staging the place nicely, but it didn't hide the fact that the floors were more slanted than a bunny hill at the ski resort, or that the shoddy finishes would all have to be torn out.

So it was a bust. But it was our first viewing, so we've finally broken the house-hunting hymen. I'm in the process of applying for a pre-approved mortgage, but the specialist assured me the house I looked at today was within my price range, so now I know what to look for.

Admittedly, I spent a sleepless night wondering and worrying--something I thought would never happen to me over something like house hunting. I suddenly feel 40 years old.