Apparently real estate makes me cry. I remember 7 years ago, Darian wouldn’t put an offer on a house that I really loved, and I spent a day crying. Not crying in a sobbing-on-the-bed kind of way, but everything I did that day, I did crying. Same thing happened just last week. An agent told us the landlord had accepted our lease offer, and so we hopped onto a plane to see the house. And before that we met with the superintendent of the public school in the area and loved it. And then went over to the house and were graciously welcomed by said agent (here on out referred to as “that bitch”) and by the time we got to the pool area, I was starry-eyed and imagining my children frolicking in the orchards. At which point she told us there was a “little wrinkle”, and so Darian and I peered into the pool, quizzically looking for said “wrinkle”. Instead of a pool leak, she told us that the owners were planning on accepting an offer on the house. I managed to hold it in for the rest of the tour, covering the delightful gazebo and charming two bedroom guest cottage.

But when we got into the car to head to office of “that bitch”, I started to cry and just couldn’t stop. I cried as we parked the car, I cried while we signed the stupid lease that would never be completed, I cried through my delicious bulgur salad at my favorite new restaurant, and I cried as I flung myself into the adjacent realtor’s office and stood helplessly in a puddle of tears asking if someone could please help me. To my husband’s credit, not once did he tell me to stop crying, or even look at me oddly, he just patiently stood by and perused some pricey pamphlets while I told our sob story to a man who looked decidedly like Clark Kent. This man, whom we shall refer to as “savior #1”, and yes, there is a “savior #2”, hooked us up with the second savior and the rest of history is still in process. I have not cried much since. Much.

But that day I just couldn’t stop, and pretty much cried all the way back to Denver, through airport security, over my sandwich and peanuts, and all through the inflight movie. I was still whimpering by the time I got to bed.

I have been through a fair amount in life. My sister has been devastatingly injured, friends’ children have died, friends have died, my parents have divorced and boyfriends have cheated on me, but for some reason, nothing makes me cry so consistently like real estate. With perhaps the exception of Liam Witt’s memorial. But that was sobbing, not mere crying.

And I think I’ve figured out why: dreams. You see, I’m a big dreamer. Not only do I have big dreams, but they’re also very elaborate and very real, and when I have a dream, or imagine something, it’s like real life to me. It’s all-encompassing and all-embracing and I dream with all my heart and soul.

And then there’s the fact that I’m a control freak. Which means that I work my darndest to make those dreams come true.

So when something happens that really destroys my dreams, and I have no control over that situation, apparently I start to cry and I just can’t stop. Because I’m watching those dreams fly away, and I can’t make them come back. And yes, I know it might seem pathetic, but just keep in mind that I’m not just imagining a nice house, I’m imagining my life, and my children’s lives and the things that happen in a home, my sanctuary, my escape, our happy place. So it’s not about brick and mortar, it’s about life, and dreams and apparently, that’s worth at least a day’s worth of tears.