So, I have decided to move out of the lovely yet enormous apartment I shared with my husband. I have decided to find a place that is mine and only mine, and to fill it with only the things I love and I choose. I will get rid of everything I don't like, arrange what I do like as I see fit and be — finally, completely, unequivocally — my own person.

An excellent plan.

Save for this: everyone else in this entire city is also looking to move. The holiday season, apparently, does not at all keep people home with their families, leaving the available apartments free and unsought for me to choose from, as I had originally hoped.

After spending a significant amount of time with my new friend Craigslist, I set aside a solid weekend to go to every within-my-price-range open house. Around 3 p.m. that Sunday, 20-odd apartments later, I was all but completely discouraged. Nothing has hit me with that feeling of "Yes, I could live here."

On top of that, it is absurd how high the rents are in this city. Laughable numbers are starting to sound perfectly reasonable to me, and I've given up on that I-will-save-an-impressive-amount-of-money-each-month dream.

Then, the next weekend, I find it. It's a loft, a mere four blocks from me. I walk in, and think, "Yes. Yes, I could live here." Full of joy, I take a rental application. Then I count the number of other people doing the same: 35. There are 35 other people applying for this apartment. So far. It's 11:15 a.m., and the open house goes until 2 p.m.

It's unfortunate that my decision to move on with my life, apartment-wise, is not more fully supported by the rest of the universe.