The process. Rethinking and overthinking. Charting, plotting, rewinding, agonizing, looking at the long view, the short view–pacing down to the nub–are things I do and enjoy doing, frankly, yet despite this there’s a large place reserved for hunches. Gut reactions, you know?
Or the gut buy, in the case of real estate, which is precisely what happened when I stepped into a townhouse today. The pile of listings and notes on my desk is informative, sure, but it didn’t compare to walking through the door and knowing that this is the one.
The question of last meals surfaced during lunch last week, posed against a grim backdrop of death row, no less, and my answer remained as eternal as the question itself. There are analogues here in town, would-be claimants to the burrito throne, but stacked against the likes of Qdoba, Moe’s, and Salsarita’s, Chipotle still stands unmatched. It’s the simplicity of the ingredients and, most of all, the hearty texture of the food.
But the problem is there aren’t any Chipotles in Charlotte, at least for the time being. When I was job hunting, it wasn’t a cover letter or an interview follow-up that furtively launched from my outbox, it was an e-mail to Chipotle. I wanted to know if they were planning on expanding to North Carolina, any part of North Carolina, so desperate was my missive.
“Please God say yes,” went my post-script.
I’m not kidding. This was a factor. They actually replied, told me to give it a year or so and, sure enough, there are two locations now with two to follow, but still nothing in these here parts. That’s okay, though, because at some point I decided to be a big person and consider things other than tortilla diameter, like job description and location.
So, about that. I’ve looked at 20-something townhouses now, during the course of which I’ve learned things no man should know about carpets, kitchens, flooring, and trim. I’ve offered, counter-offered, walked away, had regrets, but probably the most valuable thing has been sharpening my housing criteria–what’s got to be there, what can give a little, and why. It’s been the best and most draining experience. Now it’s time to figure out how to pull the trigger and commit.
Sports fans, and you’d best take good notes because I’m explaining a natural phenomenon here, are terrifying when they vehemently argue about the most ridiculous things. Take yesterday’s Duke-UNC game, for example, in which a broken nose is enough to ignite scholarly debate, weighed heavy with talk of intent and consequence and justice, when the real thesis goes something like this: Who really gives three shits and a sandwich about it? A lot of people, apparently, and heaven help you if you decide to visit, say, the ESPN forums. Bring hip waders and a gun–for yourself–and godspeed.
The problem, I think, is the innate need to gather and witness something spectacular has been deprived ever since the coliseums went down. The attention once spent on competitive limb and head hacking has been channeled into watching teams toss balls back and forth. Oh, there’s variation, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes the ball is shot over a net, sometimes into a net, sometimes at a person with a stick, sometimes from a person with a stick on a large plot of grass, other times down a frickin’ alley and straight into the gutter, and on certain occasions grown men attempt to run into each other while throwing a ball.
This is why an elbow to the nose is epic these days. It’s why you want to ask an ardent fan of a losing team, “Who died?” All that passion points to a grittier time when sports involved disembowelment, and a little blood feeds it, causes it to vibrate, makes this passion a tiny bit less vestigial. They should bring back gladiatorial combat, honestly, especially because dwarf gladiators never got their due. They “always lost because they were too short,” claims the article. I take serious issue with that.