Finding a mortgage is a scary, frustrating experience. I feel as if we’ve been spent months hunting for this secret, perfect door, and now that we’ve found it, instead of having time to sit down and marvel at it’s perfectness, we’ve been shoved inside, where these strange—albeit mostly friendly—men are shoving numbers and papers into our hands asking us to “lock in” and “float down” and other crazy things that just yesterday I had no understanding of at all. And I just want to tell them to have a seat, I’ll be with you in a minute, but no, we gotta do this NOW, for Alan’s about to burp, and who knows how long these good times will last. And I can’t help feeling—even though these guys all seem nice, and good-intentioned, and come with recommendations—that we’re being played for the greenhorns we appear to be.
The upshot of which is: we’ve set tomorrow as a deadline to choose a loan and finally move past this hellish stage. I’ve heard the next stages are much more fun. I’m particularly looking forward to the Stage of Purging.