When we first told our real estate agent we wanted this house, she looked at us like we were a little nuts. I don’t blame her. The carpet was raggedy, the walls dingy, and the layout is super weird with two big bedrooms and one little closet-sized bedroom.
Now that we’re selling the place, she came back to take photos for the listing. She’s maybe been here once or twice since giving us the keys, but it’s always been in various steps of remodeling. While taking photos of the (finally) finished product, she gave me the highest compliment a real estate agent can give: “Your house stages really nicely.”
Truthfully, the house really isn’t much better than when we bought it. The living room ceiling is some kind of old, perforated acoustic tile that’s a little bulgy in places. Our bedroom is not separated from our bathroom; we took the wall out because it was so close to the tub I had to turn sideways to get into the shower, and I am a pretty tiny person. Dan couldn’t get in at all. And the layout is still weird.
Yet it stages nicely. It looks nice in photos. Any wonky bits are easy to crop out or gloss over.
Like my house, I too stage nicely. I have yet to meet the person (including those who’ve known me the longest) who isn’t surprised to find out I have anxiety issues.
“You seem so laid back!” is the comment I get most often.
Of course I do. Because I stage nicely.
I’ve decided, no one actually has their shit together. No one. We’re all just in various degrees of staging nicely.