So I feel ridiculous complaining about this apartment in any way, because we’ve wanted to own something for ages, and it’s been a long, excessively stressful process to save, and then a long, excessively boring process to get a mortgage. The pedantic tedium of financial paperwork and approvals, interspersed with wild anxiety of accounting and justifying freelancing income.
But the thing is, if you get a pretty good deal on an apartment because it’s a fixer-upper, you then have to fix it up. No major or structural issues, just years of cheap repairs and decor. (The pedantic tedium and wild anxiety of inspections, too.)
We must imagine Sisyphus happy, in the repetitive absurdity of painting and repainting, in the constant discovery of something else that’s just a little bit broken, too. In choosing, repairing, and installing, with the associated decision paralysis. We must imagine Sisyphus happy, in the absurd and constant awareness that I’m not doing a great job at any of this, but it is happening.
