The process of selling a house is total, infinite, absolute–utter hell.

‘Yes,’ you might agree. ‘Duh,’ you might say. ‘No s**t,’ a roll of your eye and a vague, nondescript movement of your hand might convey. But, dear reader, you don’t understand. I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill hand of crap that comes with moving. 

No, this experience was, for a lack of better words, something more.

It really truly had nothing to do with leaving behind a place that I’d grown up in. It absolutely certainly wasn’t about abandoning the thousands of memories that I’d made over the years, one dent in the walls at a time. 

Nor did it concern the fond(ish) memories of my tantrum-prone garage door that never worked when I needed it to. 

It really didn’t have anything to do with the hassle of relocating while still trying to finish my AP Euro blue sheet on time (thanks Mr.White). 

It wasn’t about having to stuff all my possessions into surprisingly expensive cardboard boxes. (Boxes are anywhere from 1 to 17 dollars per box at Home Depot. It adds up.)

The sucky thing about moving 100 percent wasn’t related to watching someone else pick out my room to sleep in, to live their lives in, to make their memories in. 

No, that’s just the regular process of moving. No pressure. None at all. Because memories are with you, no matter where you are.

Sure, I won’t have the visual reminder of a hole at the end of the stairwell to stir up memories of that one time I slipped down the stairs and almost cracked my head open. 

But that’s completely okay! The constant ringing in my head, and slight difficulty in seeing will always remind me of the good old days. 

I’ll also be making memories wherever I head to next. I’ll tide through, with the good times, the bad times, and the new times. 

What I’m talking about is the fresh hell that comes before all that, the thing that makes every other sucky moving-related thing a breeze: the showings. 

See, if luck is on your side, the first person to come around and take a look-see will drop a bunch of cash in your lap, and you’ll be packing your crap up lickety-split. 

You’ll have to tidy up the house once, and viola, it’s over. 

Unfortunately, luck was not on my side. My parents were pretty picky about who would end up living in the house, which meant that a lot of people walked through my house, riffled through my belongings, and judged my decor. (It’s really cute, I swear…. messy is chic!) 

Every single time somebody came by the house to infringe and impose and scrutinize, we had to clean the house like fanatics. 

Just imagine an entire family in a caffeine-induced frenzy, and then add in various (and often unnecessary) cleaning supplies. 

We had to sweep the floors, vacuum the carpets, wipe down the counter, dust here and there, open windows, clean the bathroom, make the beds, clear the desks and more.

On top of that, we had to hide every single thing that was personal; that would make people feel like they couldn’t see themselves living in the house. 

We essentially had to eradicate any possible evidence of humans existing in the house, because humans apparently just don’t personalize their abodes at all. (Which, fun fact, is the main reason why stores like HomeGoods do not sell any goods related to homes.) 

Sterilizing a house (in all senses of the word) was a Herculean feat, and often meant going to extreme lengths. 

One time, there were dirty dishes in the sink and my mom had handed me the responsibility of cleaning a ridiculously messy kitchen.

I had been busy shoving things under my bed, and had forgotten in the process. With approximately three seconds before the possible buyers unlocked the front door, I threw the dishes out the window and, in essence, teetered out of the house. 

True story. I also had to take down my tots adorbs polaroid wall. It was my amalgamation. Messy chic without chic is just messy.

And it’s not like that’s it. Ohhh nooo.

We had to be out of the house during the showings, which, yes, makes sense, but it was really, super difficult to do. 

There’d be back-to-back showings so we couldn’t be home for hours.

Panera’s you-pick-2 option (creamy tomato soup in a bread bowl and a Caprese sandwich, and fruit on the side) starts tasting pretty blah after the 500th meal. 

You know it’s bad if you find yourself napping at Gurnsey’s.

But, the showings are over, the house is sold, the hassle is over. 

It’s all quiet on the house front.