Currently viewing the tag: "Team Edward"
Since college graduation I have moved no fewer than 16 times. (I’ll admit, at this point I’ve lost exact count.) In fact, it’s fair to say that if there is anything I truly excel at, it’s moving. At any given time, in any given apartment, I sleep easy knowing that under my couch are six collapsed moving boxes, inside my winter chest I’ve nestled three rolls of bubble wrap, and inside my kitchen pantry I have stashed rows of foam plate sleeves. I know someday I’ll be glad I have these. In my daydreams someone with a big cardboard check shows up to my door with TV crews. “Congratulations! You have won the chance at a million dollars—all you need to do is vacate your apartment in 24 hours and it’s yours!” I would not panic, I’d calmly slip into a well-rehearsed routine, and proceed to win a million bucks.
I don’t think hoarding packing materials is a bad thing. My grandpa was known to steal bread rolls off of white linen tables and stuff them in his cardigan sweater pockets. The moving box doesn’t fall far from the truck: in my family, these are the things we hold on to.
So, it’s no coincidence that anytime any one of my friends needs to move I’m the first strategist they call. Most recently it was a friend in San Francisco who is planning to move to Chicago in two weeks. She needed to sign a place on Saturday, and in her absence, I was deployed. Only, it didn’t really go like that. On Thursday night I was cc’d on an email to Jacob, her leasing agent. “Hi Jacob! Thanks so much for agreeing to show apartments without me present. My friend will meet you and make the decision for me. She has no plans this weekend so just go ahead and give her a ring to coordinate.”
I did not reply. On Friday I woke up to the following email:
Subject: Team Jacob
Thank you SOOOOOOO much for looking at apartments on Saturday for me. I think you’re going to love Jacob. By his emails I can tell he’s really hot and single. I probably am introducing you to your future husband, so thanks again, and you’re welcome.
I got up early on Saturday for my day of apartment hunting in 95 degree heat. I decided to wear something cute to meet my apartment-leasing suitor—something funky, yet classy. I wore a see-through tank top with a black bra, a white mini skirt and black bangle bracelets. I arrived at 12:59 (one minute early to show I mean business) and I met Jacob. He wore a mustard yellow button-down shirt that was drenched in back sweat. He carried a fake leather briefcase with no documents inside. He did not take off his sunglasses when I entered the building, he just picked up his cell phone to call Laurel, the property manager, to let her know we had arrived.
I texted my friend to let her know I was officially on Team Edward, and then texted my dad to tell him to stop bubble wrapping my dowry.
When Laurel emerged through the pristine glass doors, with a neck full of olive-sized pearls, I immediately questioned my attire. While my Material Girl look was a show stopper in the Gold Coast, it may just have cost my friend the apartment. Laurel was kind enough not to stare at my black bra and showed me all of the features of the apartment including the lovely faux wood paneling in the kitchenette.
My friend had sent me a laundry list of requirements: sunlight, laundry in building, roof deck pool, workout facility, 24 hour door man … and on, and on. But she left out some very important criteria. As Jacob toured me through apartments two and three I made sure to take copious mental notes. If I was going to be spending much of my time visiting her, helping her move, and acclimate to Chicago life, there may as well be hot guys in the building. This, I decided, was a fair broker’s fee.
And then, at 3pm we hit the goldmine. Location: Old Town. We were met by a 6’2″, All-American, corn-fed, football-playing young buck named Steve, who would be giving us a tour of the unit.
“Now Steve,” I said stepping into the sunlight in the rental office to ensure proper tank top transparency, “It is essential that I have a place with 24 hour maintenance.”
“Absolutely!” Steve said, revealing his perfect white teeth in a dimpled smile. “I live in the building, and I’m here every day.”
I imagined coming over to visit my friend in the winter, bumping into Steve, and joining him for long talks by the dual fire place in the “community lounge” while she took way too long to get ready (a point I’d make sure to mention, so that Steve would know that while I dress like a material girl, I’m really quite low maintenance). We’d talk about what it was like to grow up in a small town in Illinois and how he’d never met someone from Maine before, and then I’d regale him with tales of all the exotic places I’ve been, like Nova Scotia.
“Thank you, Steve. I believe this place is perfect.”
“Don’t you want to see inside?”
“Nope. I have a strong intuition about these types of things.”
