After I filed for divorce five years ago and needed to move out of my house of 26 years, I looked at 49 properties before I found my new place. 

I bid on one small house. It went way over asking and I didn’t get it. I wanted to bid on a couple of other townhouses, but they were sold before I could even jump in.

The market in Evanston was very tight. Still is.

At one point, I was so discouraged that I cried on my realtor’s shoulder. “I’m never going to find a place,” I sobbed. 

“You, will, Sara, you will,” she assured me. “And you’ll know it as soon as you see it.”

Shit Happens

Then one day, two weeks before I was to move out of my house into a sublet apartment while I continued my search, a bird pooped on my hand. It happened while I was doing my usual power walk to the lake, swinging my arms, listening to a podcast.

The timing and trajectory of the poop had to be just right to land on my hand in this situation. I don’t blame the bird; I’m sure it wasn’t targeting me. When you have to go, you have to go. 

They say when a bird poops on you, it brings good luck.

Later that day, I went to look at a townhouse that had just come on the market in a community in northeast Evanston. When I walked in the door, I knew I’d found my place. 

It was modern and clean, filled with light. The style of my house had been a combination of modern and traditional, but I always yearned for a more contemporary space. This place felt like me – or at least the me I wanted to be in my next phase of life.

Where are the Cats?

As we were touring it, I noticed that the owner had cats. They weren’t around, but there were cat beds and cat boxes in several of the bedrooms. A cat lover myself, I had two at the time.

While we were sitting in the living room discussing the place, a black cat appeared on the landing and looked down at us. 

“Hello,” I cooed. “Are you checking us out?”

I instructed my realtor to put in a bid over asking price. Later that evening, she called me.

“Sara, you got it!” she said.

Praise the Lord. My search was over.

“And, get this, when I told the owner’s realtor that the black cat had come out to say hello, she said that cat never comes out for anybody,” she said. “I told her you were a cat person, so maybe that helped.”

Indeed. Bird poop magic. Along with black cat magic.

Buying a House is Like Dating

Now that I’ve been back in the dating pool, I see many similarities between finding a partner and finding a new home. 

My first relationship after my divorce felt like home for a while. I loved being there. I could imagine staying. When it ended, I wondered whether I could have done something different to keep it.

But here’s what I know about the house and other townhomes I lost:

I don’t drive past them wishing I lived there. I did for a while, but not anymore.

Because I found a place that suited the new me better. I’d looked at so many that I knew what I wanted.

I’m hoping love works that way, too. And that I don’t have to go out with 49 men before I find the one I was meant to be with.

Maybe I just need a little bird poop and black cat magic.