The time has come for me to take a step so many girls have made before me – moving in with my boyfriend. I’ve had several living situations since turning 18. First there was the dorm room with my best friend from high school. We were lucky, and rather than have our friendship torn apart by the confines of that mini-room, it only made our friendship stronger (even with the occasional screaming match or two). After that, the dorm roommate and I moved into a small three bedroom apartment with another girl from our dorm. Things started out strong, but we eventually starting drifting apart and the third roommate moved out early, in the middle of the night (or was it morning? the concept of time in college was so fuzzy), leaving behind only a drawer full of underwear (seriously) and a few perishables
in the cupboards. After that apartment, the original roomie and I moved into a large house with six bedrooms. The roommates in this house came and went and were swapped out several times (including a year that involved a 19 year old boy moving in, and adopting his five 21 year old roommates as pseudo mothers. Only four of us stayed the full two years in that madhouse, and I’m still not sure what kind of effect that had on our psyches. After college, I spent about a year living with my parents before my brother and I moved into our grandma’s apartment after she passed (no it wasn’t creepy, yes sometimes I think I can “feel” her presence – but it’s probably more likely a caffeine buzz peaking and/or wearing off). This takes us to present day, and the next step of my journey into “adulthood.”
I’ve lived with guys before. My brother and my pseudo-son Phil who I mentioned before.
Plus countless former roommates boyfriends who would camp out in our place more often than their own (we were pretty fun). And I’ve fallen into K-holes with previous boyfriends where it seemed like we were spending every possible second together and it felt like we might have been living together. But shared bills, income dependency, and close quarters with no separate place to flee too are all going to be new concepts. Don’t boys have cooties???
There are a lot of things I’m concerned about, some more serious than others. What if he can hear me making #2s through the bathroom wall? What if he doesn’t like watching Gossip Girl marathons when I’m feeling sick (it’s literally the only way to feel better, sans doctor)? What if I forget how awesome alone time is? What if we get bored (gasp!)? What if he forgets to switch to his Netflix account and messes up all my recommendations? What if he loses his job, and I have support us both financially? What if we break up?
With the bad, there is always good. I can’t wait to have someone to share breakfast with
every morning. I can’t wait to have someone with an obligation to plunge the toilet or tub when they’re clogged. I can’t wait to have someone to watch Gossip Girl marathons with me (Chuck and Blair, your shitty relationship is like crack to me). I can’t wait to be able to spend time together on weeks when my schedule changes, and I get stuck working 8:00-4:30 while he’s working 3:00-11:00 (we don’t have weeks like that often, and I do enjoy the random alone time, but by the time the week ends, I’m glad). I can’t wait to have someone to come home to every single night. I can’t wait to have someone by my side, that loves me more than I love myself.
Am I ready? Who knows. What I do know is I’ll never know until I make the leap, and I’m ready to skydive.