Putting the reality in real estate tours.

The first showing took place on Monday. I made zero efforts to accommodate the real estate agent and the potential buyer: I went on the trainer. This meant the dining table had been moved into the living room, and I set up my laptop, sweat rag, and fan on it. Then in front of the table, I laid down a mat, set the trainer on that, and secured my bike to the trainer. Wearing just bib shorts and a sports bra, I dripped sweat all over the mat as I pedaled for three hours. I was aware that there was a showing scheduled during that time and BOLDLY DID NOT GIVE A FUCK.

In fact, I relished the idea of making things awkward.

There is another showing tomorrow while I’m at work, and the roomie is out of town. Jordi, however, lives next door and won’t be working. I recommended he spend an hour on the couch, stripped to the waist, and eating a block of cheese the size of a car battery. Basically, I hope he embraces his inner George Costanza.

But, yeah, I don’t trust these people. I realized a few days ago that the eggs that the realtor brought for me and my roommate were three weeks past the best-before date. Maybe I’ll keep them to give back to her 11 months from now, approximately how long it’ll take her to sell this dumpy place after multiple price reductions. She won’t know that the Feb 08 stamped on the carton refers to 2023, not 2024.

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