I've been showing houses to this couple for seven months now. Seven. They've seen sixty-three properties. I know because I started a spreadsheet to track my own slow descent into madness. Last week, we finally found one they both loved. Perfect layout, great neighborhood, under budget. I was mentally planning my celebration dinner. Then the husband noticed the neighbor had a basketball hoop in their driveway. He said, and I quote, "I can't live next to people who have outdoor hobbies. It suggests a lack of intellectual depth." I stood there for a solid ten seconds trying to figure out if he was joking. He was not. His wife nodded solemnly like this was a completely reasonable dealbreaker. We're now on month eight. They've rejected homes for having mailboxes that were "too eager-looking," a front door that "opened with suspicious ease," and a backyard that "felt like it was hiding something." I've started therapy. My therapist says I need to set boundaries. I've started laughing whenever she says that.