Today while I was driving from a conference back to my kids’ field day shenanigans, which was actually taking place on the field at my work so, yeah, nowhere to run nowhere to hide and all that, I was a realtor.
When I was a realtor I tapped my painted fingernails on the steering wheel to the tune on the radio because I wasn’t actually listening to the idiot governor giving an interview in which he managed to sound both imperious and like an ignoramus at once on NPR. No, instead I listened to music from my college days, music that my clients would read as both hip and non-threatening should they get in the car and I’d accidentally left the radio on.
I was wearing clicky heels and looked generally very put together. My outfit was clearly thought through, as opposed to…not. My hair looked blown out, but I do it myself, and my roots didn’t show. I was wearing makeup and actually took the time to do eyeliner, because in my realtor life, that’s what I do. And I like it.
I had lunch with friends because my realtor schedule was flexible today, and I only showed one house this afternoon. I eat only salad for lunch. Ever. I am a mediocre tipper.
I am never late for appointments. My car is spotless. I, personally, do not care for this house I am showing because it lacks character and is not especially well built (although my heels made a spectacular sound on the kitchen tile), but I will sell the shit out of it anyway. The people who are most interested in this house are moving here “because of the schools,” which is what everybody who moves here says. I gave them 1,001 other reasons to move here. They aren’t going to buy this house. They are going to buy another house, a bigger one, they just don’t know it yet.
In my realtor life I drink a martini every evening before dinner and sneak cigarettes on the back porch after my kids have gone to bed.
For the record: I know lots of people who sell houses and not one of them is anything like this. Except for maybe the martini and cigarettes. Yeah, I’m looking at you.