apartment adultery.

For the past couple of weeks, Jordan and I have been debating resigning our lease (which is up for renewal in July). The lack of outdoor space and, more importantly, the noticeable absence of a washer and dryer, had us seriously considering a move.

Just to clarify, I hate the moving process. I feel like I just. did. that.

And yet… (Isn’t there always an, “and yet”?)

During my lunch break, the mod and I have been exploring, just looking for rent signs or checking out the riff-raff to be found on craigslist. (Seriously. All advertisements should be required to post un-edited photographs.)

One day, fate found us.

Jordan and I were checking out a little townhome community we looked at a year ago, and lo and behold, not one, not two, but three townhomes were for rent. Cute, brick, classy townhomes.

So we placed a few phone calls.

Too much.

Too much.

Then came our big break. Something just slightly out of our tighter-than-the-belts-I-wore-in-elementary-school budget.

Today, during another lunch break extravaganza, the husband and I went to go check it out.

There was wallpaper.

And weeds.

And yellow countertops.

And yet… (There it is again)

I loved it.

The two stories.

The washer-dryer hook-ups.

The space for friends and family.

The windows.

The fireplace.

The little patch of land to call our own.

Then, fate found us again.

Thanks to a little bartering from my soon-to-be-lawyer of a husband, they knocked $50 off the rent, which already includes cable (our current rent does not).

As if that weren’t enough, my little heart skipped a beat when the realtor uttered these fate-filled words: “The homeowner says you can take down the wallpaper, paint, whatever.”

You mean… I can make my little house a home? Visions of blueprints and paint colors danced in my head.

Where do I sign?

Of course, guilt set in just a moment later.

My quaint, old, charming, midtown apartment. In a neighborhood. With children, and families, and dogs, and lemonade stands. And character. Lots of character.

Ingleside Avenue. Just like Anne.

Our first place together. Our treehouse.

And it hit me: I had cheated.

I was the old man with the young blond. The midlife crisis with the red Ferrari.

I was actually considering trading in my first love for a newer model.

Granted, a newer model that needs a lot of tender loving care, but still... The guilt remained.

I cheated on my apartment today.

Now I think it might hate me.

But—I can’t believe I’m typing this—we might sign the paperwork anyway.

Bring on the boxes.