February 15, 2012 § 1 Comment
For a while I’ve pumped the breaks on my public swoon of Mister Red. When you’re honeymooning people tend to get really pissy when you talk too much about how awesome your snuggle buddy is. Hearts, loving gazes, public make-out sessions, the constant touching. No matter what you have to have at least one hand on them at all times, restaurants, grocery store, staff meeting, always touching. No one else gets it but you. And that’s just fine.
I’m always a person who practices internet digression, so I’ve curbed my enthusiasm and didn’t update you upon the receipt of random acts of flowers, intimate back rubs, or how I think his smile could melt butter in communist Russia during the worst ice storm of the decade. However, now we’ve reached a pinnacle point in our relationship that many women shriek with delight at the mere thought. We are moving in together.
I freaking enjoy living alone. It’s my dishes, my laundry, my dirt, my mess and I’ll clean it when I damn well feel like it. I like to surprise myself at how long I can go before I have to break down and grocery shop. You don’t really know how long Ramen Noodles last until you’ve bought them in bulk and haven’t gone to store in over a month. I LOVE going to the bathroom with the door open, it’s how I keep my claustrophobia under control. I can keep strange hours and enjoy guilty pleasures like 6 hours straight of Dance Moms and dispensing whip cream directly into my mouth without getting caught. No one ever comments on your hummus and cheez-it consumption when you live by yourself. There are perks, but I’ve begun weighing my options.
Adult sleepovers with Mister Red have been consecutive for some time now. It’s starting to become difficult for both him and I to pack an overnight bag almost every night of the week. I’m literally living out of a backpack 50% of the time. What is this, band camp? Then there’s that late night decision to sleep away from each other which ultimately ends with one of us breaking down and spending 20 mins looking for street parking, only to discover a parking ticket in the morning. So now, he has a key to my place and I to his. He’ll sneak in at night after working late and I don’t even flinch. I’m a real heavy sleeper, I’m screwed if there’s ever an intruder. That’s one reason I’d like him around permanently, better than a Great Dane. Food is starting to be a problem because I can’t keep him in midnight snacks when my fridge is only stocked with condiments. So there are some obvious mutual benefits to moving in at this stage in the game.
He brought it up. Although, I’ll confess to thinking about it for some time and bringing it up as a brunch topic with my besties. And now we’re doing it. Talking about budgets and looking for a place. It’s funny how discussing money always makes things feel more official. Of course we are splitting things evenly, and being fiscally reasonable with our expectations. We’re making compromises on things we want, like staying out of the tsunami zone and having some sort of balcony. Very adult sauce.
I keep telling people, “I’m not worried” in that high pitched voice that indicates someone just lied. Truth? I’m totally terrified. This is a big step, and if it doesn’t work out, I’m going to be crushed. Like I said, butter melting smile. Two things my mother told me to do before marrying anyone: have sex, and live together. Well, we already know I’ve crossed the first one off the list. That means this second one puts me closer to a white dress and the kick-ass party of death-do-us-part. Or it puts me closer to tears and the break-up diet of my life.
Time to face facts and face fears. I’m not getting any younger and if I’m to the point where I think I can stand living with this dude and he’s actually signing up to deal with my messy habits then I better not pass. I mean, he’s going to take out the trash. He wants to take out our trash! Now that’s a guy to consider marrying, no matter how petrifying the thought of a wedding ceremony is.
Cross my heart, I don’t want to screw this up.