Why selling your property is a bit like online dating

Ever tarted up your house, posted some wildly flattering photos online and then invited a bunch of strangers to consider its sex – I mean street – appeal?

Well I have, quite recently in fact, and let me say the whole nerve-racking process of selling a home feels distinctly like internet dating.

To begin my search for the perfect buyer, I turned to a charming matchmaker (she might prefer her actual job title: real estate agent), who managed to talk up all the positive features of my two-bedroom unit in a Tinder-style triumph of an ad.

And if the words “beautifully maintained”, “light and bright”, “easy access to EastLink” and the enviable “separate toilet” don’t get the heart pounding, I wonder: do you even have a pulse?

After the well-lit pictures were published, the agent’s phone started to not only “ding” with virtual kisses, but actually ring. (For the smug-marrieds among you, please note this rarely happens during the often distinctly unromantic journey that is online dating.)

The agent’s strategy to offload this beauty seemed to involve acting a little hard to get. No, we wouldn’t immediately open the doors for all and sundry to stroll on through. Instead it would be the much-more exclusive “private inspection”.

Four potential suitors turned up to the first one, and honestly, I expected to be more nervous than I was. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that not only had I failed to do my hair or put on a fresh splash of lippy – I wasn’t even there. 

I did, however, hope my tenant would be in good form. 

After the inspection, the buyers’ “feedback” was rather frank. None of this: “Look I’m sorry, you seem like a great girl, but there just wasn’t a spark.” Instead it was straight to telling it like it is.

A potential buyer – let’s call her Cathy – felt that the colours were “dated” and the “appliances needed to be upgraded”. If this had been a romantic meet-and-greet, it would be like saying I still had my 1990s fringe and believed happy pants were on trend. 

Meanwhile a bloke we’ll call Barry decided to chaperone his daughter to this private inspection, and she was not best pleased with “the backyard running along the front”.  

Now I don’t want to get all sensitive on you, but no one ever claimed the courtyard was a BACKyard, love. That would be like claiming online you are six foot tall, when you’d really be better suited atop a horse on Melbourne Cup Day.

Luckily one bloke, an investor, felt the stirrings of something and decided to get his wife along for a second opinion. Thank goodness that was not an actual date. How awkward would that be?

Aye, but he wasn’t in hook, line and sinker just yet. First, the waiting game, and that old familiar sick feeling in the tummy. That delicate dance of getting him to text back, let alone put a ring on it! 

If I was in charge, I probably would have sent more than one text, and then deeply regretted it. But this time, my wise property matchmaker was running the show.

“We won’t call him this weekend. We don’t want to come off as too desperate,” she advised, after the investor and I agreed on a price, only for him to go incommunicado for a few days.

But like any good wing woman, she was not going to leave it there. This love affair was too damn important.

On Monday, it was back on the blower, and it was a yes! The buyer signed on the dotted line, committing himself to my cute little unit forever more (or at least until he pays down the mortgage or moves on to something better).

Looking back, it all happened pretty quickly. But I guess when you know, you just know.

And while I’d never “settle” when it comes to love, this time I can’t wait.