I would say it was the naked meth head jerking off in front of my office window that did me in, but we still stayed for another six months after that.
I was making more money than I will most likely ever make again, but still, I was barely scraping by. My life was great –– I had a new husband, a gorgeous puppy, and a cozy cottage, but I didn’t have the energy or the funds to enjoy it. Never mind that San Francisco was getting more and more overwhelming each day.
After two years in the city and six months in the suburbs (a failed attempt to escape increasing rent), I was in debt, lonely, and exhausted. After a ten-hour day commuting to and from work at a tech startup, I spent any remaining time binge-watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
It’s no secret that San Francisco is one of the most expensive cities in America. Our rent — for a 700 square foot 1-bedroom above-garage cottage (45 minutes outside the city) — was $3,000 per month.
It was a better deal than our 500 square foot basement studio with no laundry, parking or doors.
But moving out ended up being more expensive. The dog walker was $30 per day. Commuting across the bridge with gas, tolls and parking was $45. Forty five. Dollars. Per day. Just to get to work.
It took two and a half years before I folded.
Read the rest of the post over on Good Housekeeping.