Don't hold your breath.  That's the saying, right?  For example, if a woman said, "I'm going to marry a hot, rich, well-educated guy with a kind heart," then my friend Mick Stein would say "Don't hold your breath."  Actually, he would laugh and say, "Don't hold your f***ing breath."  And then go on and on about how a guy like that doesn't exist.  "You want someone nice?" he likes to say.  "Marry a fat guy."

Well, if the saying's right, then I've been vacillating between suffocation and oxygen highs the last two months as I've meandered and stressed my way through this house purchase.  The closing is scheduled for this Friday.  But there's no guarantee that it'll actually happen.  I keep getting different stories, and I don't trust any of them.  Can I buy?  Can't I buy?  No one seems to know.

Oh yes, everything is on track; don't you worry.

I'm afraid we don't have enough time to do a construction loan.  We'll have to go conventional.

Everything looks great on the conventional loan.  Should be a simple process.

Appraiser asked about structural concerns.  Not sure the conventional loan will do.  Might have to go construction and extend the closing date.

Looks like everything will be okay.  We'll forward you the appraisal as soon as we get it.

I have literally spent the beginning of almost every week this month worried about the house, and the rest of the week trying to calm myself down.  If my blood pressure doesn't kill me before I get to the end of all of this, I might end up with a house.  But I might not.  I just really can't tell.

Just try not to worry about it this weekend.  I'll talk to the loan officer Monday.

That's what my realtor told me on Saturday...right after I lost in the finals of my weekly volleyball tournament (great timing).  And I spent the weekend trying hard not to worry about it, as per her suggestion.  I binged on Netflix.  I played almost seven hours of volleyball.  I cantored at my church.  I went to a Saints game.  I ate almost a quart of ice cream.  I might have even managed to get hit on by a World War II vet at church on Sunday.

Man: You know what we used to call beautiful girls back in the day?
Me: What's that?
Man: McIlhenny.  Like where they make Tabasco sauce.  You know why?  One word.
Me: What's that?
Man: Hot.
[pause]
Man: You married?
Me: Nope.
Man: Me neither. ...You know, old men marry young women sometimes.  But it never lasts.  Maybe six months.
Me: You're probably right.
Man: I don't think I'll do that.
Me: That's probably a wise decision.

But despite my distracting weekend, I still spent today biting my nails and checking my email every hour to see if the appraisal had come through.  To see if I was going to buy a house, after all.

People keep telling me not to worry.  People keep trying to reassure me.  I'm sure it'll work out.  Surely you're farther along in your loan than a whole new buyer would be.  But the truth is, I don't know whether or not I should worry.  I don't know if reassurance is a good idea.  If I get to Saturday, and I haven't bought this house, I feel like I should be preparing for disappointment now.  What was worse as a kid: thinking you may or may not get a Nintendo for Christmas, or being told you'll probably get one and then finding Yahtzee under the tree?

[For the record, I love a good game of Yahtzee.  But it wasn't the expectation; that's my point.]

I suppose until my signature is on the purchase papers and the check has been cut, I've just got to brace myself for whatever complications may arise.  I've got to prepare myself for the worst and hope for the best.  I've got to hatch my eggs before I count them.  I've got to waste space with overused English idioms in an attempt to calm myself.

It ain't over until midnight on Saturday.  I'll let you know if I make it.