I realize I deserve little sympathy for my first-world tale of woe, but . . .
We were supposed to leave for Florida today. My bags are packed, the refrigerator is empty, and the newspapers have been stopped.
Last winter, on vacation in the gentle twilight of our lives, we both lost our minds simultaneously and signed up to buy a second home. For more than 365 days I’ve been marking down the days on my calendar and dreaming of palm trees.
Now thanks to builder delays and Byzantine insurance and mortgage rules, we’re in a holding pattern.
In an off-hand manner on Wednesday, I suggested to my fellow lunatic that, ha ha, perhaps we should just drop an email to the bank to see if everything is copacetic for the closing date everyone had assured us was locked in for Tuesday of next week.
It did seem a bit unnecessary – I mean, if there was a problem, at least one of the fleet of people we’ve been dealing with would have contacted us, right?
Still, we were about to rent a trailer, hitch it to the car, and drive for three days, so what the heck, why not?
A buzzing started up in my brain as soon as the bank lady began cataloguing the hoops remaining to be jumped through. Bottom line, we’re going nowhere anytime soon.
Apparently, it never occurred to the many builder reps or bank officers to let us in on this. Had we not contacted them, we would have merrily motored through 7 states only to sit in an expensive hotel room day after day while bureaucrats shuffled papers.
My coping skills kicked right into gear as soon as I got the news.
Gone now is a two-pack of Hostess Snowballs, the first third of a bottle of wine, and half a bag of potato chips.