I'm going back to find some peace of mind in San Jose [part III]
Continued from part II.
I'm so glad the apartment building I chose was the last one I saw, not the first one.
You know how, when you're shoe shopping — stay with me a minute, gentlemen; or adapt to your own analogy — and you need a particular pair of shoes, say, pink with rhinestones, to go with a dress you already bought, and you need them, say, next Saturday night and so you are on a mission to find that perfect pair of shoes; and the first store you go into has a pair of shoes that you love, and so you buy them but then you can't help yourself, you go into three other shoe stores anyway, and in the third one you find either a pair of shoes you like better, or, worse, the same pair for half the price?
The moral of the story is, don't jump at the first option, no matter how much you think you love it.
I loved Sixty South Street before I'd even stepped through the gate, because the woman who came to open it for me, the assistant manager, whose name is Lea, which is short for Azalea, which she pronounces AZ-a-lay-a ("Spelled like the flower, but pronounced better!") was so adorable, and so friendly, that I knew I wanted to live there.
As we walked up the first set of stairs, to the courtyard level, she asked me where I was from, and I told her, Toronto.
"Oh! So you'd be my Ontario!" she exclaimed. "I already have a Quebec and a British Columbia! I love Canadians."
The building was modern, with every convenience (except a pool, but so what?), including, if you can believe it, a coffee bar in the common room for all residents. Complete with espresso machine and supplies. I felt the place calling to me already.
And I told you what Jack's two cents was.
He'd been so great, all day. So patient. I mean, it's not exactly a fun time spending your Saturday driving around, looking at apartment buildings. Plus, for him it was quarter end at Big Ass American Software Company, and he'd been discreetly checking his Blackberry all day. But he only took one phone call; just one.
Lea showed us the actual apartment that would be mine, not a model suite, and I wasn't two steps in the door before I blurted out, "I'll take it!" At which point Jack excused himself and went outside for ten minutes. We told him we'd meet him in the office.
I thought he'd stepped out because he had to take a call, and it wasn't until later, when we were shopping at Nordstrom's, that he told me he stepped out so as not to unduly influence my decision.
To be continued in part IV.
I'm so glad the apartment building I chose was the last one I saw, not the first one.
You know how, when you're shoe shopping — stay with me a minute, gentlemen; or adapt to your own analogy — and you need a particular pair of shoes, say, pink with rhinestones, to go with a dress you already bought, and you need them, say, next Saturday night and so you are on a mission to find that perfect pair of shoes; and the first store you go into has a pair of shoes that you love, and so you buy them but then you can't help yourself, you go into three other shoe stores anyway, and in the third one you find either a pair of shoes you like better, or, worse, the same pair for half the price?
The moral of the story is, don't jump at the first option, no matter how much you think you love it.
I loved Sixty South Street before I'd even stepped through the gate, because the woman who came to open it for me, the assistant manager, whose name is Lea, which is short for Azalea, which she pronounces AZ-a-lay-a ("Spelled like the flower, but pronounced better!") was so adorable, and so friendly, that I knew I wanted to live there.
As we walked up the first set of stairs, to the courtyard level, she asked me where I was from, and I told her, Toronto.
"Oh! So you'd be my Ontario!" she exclaimed. "I already have a Quebec and a British Columbia! I love Canadians."
The building was modern, with every convenience (except a pool, but so what?), including, if you can believe it, a coffee bar in the common room for all residents. Complete with espresso machine and supplies. I felt the place calling to me already.
And I told you what Jack's two cents was.
He'd been so great, all day. So patient. I mean, it's not exactly a fun time spending your Saturday driving around, looking at apartment buildings. Plus, for him it was quarter end at Big Ass American Software Company, and he'd been discreetly checking his Blackberry all day. But he only took one phone call; just one.
Lea showed us the actual apartment that would be mine, not a model suite, and I wasn't two steps in the door before I blurted out, "I'll take it!" At which point Jack excused himself and went outside for ten minutes. We told him we'd meet him in the office.
I thought he'd stepped out because he had to take a call, and it wasn't until later, when we were shopping at Nordstrom's, that he told me he stepped out so as not to unduly influence my decision.
To be continued in part IV.
4 Comments:
I'm so happy for you. So what happened next?
Ah, yes...the infamous problem of finding pink shoes with rhinestones...
Always such a problem ;)
Actually, I'd have said the moral of the Tale Of The Pink Shoes is not "don't jump at the first option," but rather: love the things you love, and don't put effort into disappointing yourself.
I mean, an alternate reaction to seeing the "perfect" item in the first place you look is to buy it, be happy with it, and spend the rest of the time you'd set aside for shopping as a bonus. It's an opportunity to treat yourself and your new shoes to a matinee or an extended lunch--a celebration of early success, not a dogged attempt to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
But then again I'm a hedonistic, myopic, impulse-buying, immediate gratification kinda guy. (Yes, everything after "I'm a" and before "guy" is probably redundant in that sentence.)
--Carrington
Hey, Sass, you're right: I can leave my name instead of doing this anonymously.
*ahem* I claim this comment in the name of Carrington!
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