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In June 2000, my boyfriend and I stood inside a plush condo in a Washington, D.C., suburb, tended by a sharp-cheeked realtor who looked like a character from “Frozen.” We were 21, about to start our first jobs after leaving college in Massachusetts, and nothing seemed more adult than renting a one-bedroom plus den complete with central air. The complex had swanky amenities like a pool, tennis court, and fitness center. It even had a soothing name — something like Sage Crossing or Spearmint Cove.
“Just look at these walk-in closets!” the real estate agent trilled.
I had seen the future, and it resembled the set of “Friends.” We were ecstatic.