“What does this all look like when everyone gets older? When does this stop being fun?” Was it still fun? Was it ever? I had turned twenty-nine that summer, and I was starting to want things I had not wanted when I was twenty-five. I developed the bad habit of swiping through real estate apps thirstily, like I was waiting for a gut-renovated Victorian in Cole Valley to ask me, unsolicited, for my Myers-Briggs type.
