The Move, Part 3: I'll never let go, Jack

Packing is a frickin' struggle.

For the past five years, I've been in my "big girl" apartment, all by myself, living some version of the dream. Which basically means I've had a lot of time to gather / hoard a lot of stuff.

Knowing that the move was coming, I quickly brought in reinforcements. Several gal pals took shifts coming to hang out as I began sorting through my clothes, books, movies, etc. (Thanks, ladies!!) I poured out cocktails and story after story about why this tank top was an important piece of my soul, or why I really needed to keep that panda notebook. They generously doled out sympathetic smiles, while ripping things out of my hands and placing them in boxes marked for Goodwill. We reminisced over items from shared memories and hashed out all the very latest gossip. As they departed, I crammed several items in their arms, pleading that they save me from myself and take my things.

But that was weeks ago.

Long past what should've been the "sorting" and "paring down" phase, it's now reached the "holy shit, we're on the brink of eviction and not fully packed yet" phase. The beau is officially out of his place and I'm officially out over the holiday weekend. And while I tried my best to shuttle boxes over in advance from my current place, there still seems to be so much left. I even threw a beatnik eviction party to try and get rid of some of my booze, just so we wouldn't have to pack it. To no avail. If we all were 21 again, there wouldn't have been a drop left. But as it were, my new neighbors think I'm a total lush with all the clinkies I've been toting into the place.

The real issue is of course: why do I have all this stuff?

Because I'm a sentimental hag who clings desperately to small tokens of the past? Because I've been too lazy to get rid of things over the years? Because I just love finding and collecting treasures (it was on SALE! Huzzah consumerism!)? Yeah, maybe. Maybe all that. But one constant theme, of all the things, was the story. Despite my having a piss poor memory, each and every single thing I have has a story behind it. I think part of me is worried that if I throw the item away, I'll forget its story. That's the sappy sad side of things. (#firstworldproblems - is that still a thing?)

BUT these were the flats that I wore all around Europe during my semester abroad.
These flats have BEEN places, I can't just discard them!

The other side of things is: who gives a hoot about the story of a broken glitter fish necklace and WHY do I have climbing wall panels? Am I ever going to BUILD a climbing wall? Where?? In my living room? And is that broken fish necklace going to help me magically have upper body strength so I can climb said wall? All signs point to... me with a bottle of wine and a hammer, adding climbing wall panels in my kitchen and then ripping off the drywall as I try to scale my pantry. So why risk it? Clearly I need to get rid of these panels for my own safety. And again... why do I even have them??*

I could be like those people who rockclimb as a hobby!

Basically, I love my things. Whether they make sense or not, I love them. I know all the wonderful benefits hat come out of minimalism and streamlining, but I'm just not there yet. Worse yet, when it comes to moving, I love packing. If there is a slot in a box that needs filling, I'll fill it with whatever I can find, even if it's something I was planning on getting rid of (sure, those forks will fit in amongst my raccoon plushies). Having several weeks to pack up / move has almost made it worse, because at this point, I don't remember what I decided to keep or not, or what's even in half the boxes that are already at the new place. And with how I jenga them together, the boxes are basically landmines when you do open them.

That's why I have my final line of defense against the clutter: the long suffering beau who is my new roomie. It's all going to come down to him as I unpack each box. He'll need to point out the nonsense items and put his foot down on me discarding things or begrudgingly give in as I explain to him the value of a giant martini glass and place it lovingly in the cupboards of our new home.
(He'll thank me later on that martini glass, I just know it!)

Hagrid is on board with using a laundry basket to transport all my unnecessary junk.
He always supports me. Thanks, pal!

Click here for Part One: In which I build pillow forts and refuse to wear pants.
Click here for Part Two: In which I get half-eaten by wild dogs.




*The answer is that I used to work custodial at a middle school to make college cash during the summer and they were sample panels that were getting discarded, so I took them. Because in my mind, I thought, "With a little spray paint, these could be really artsy wall decor for my adult apartment I'll have some day!" Taking no account to the fact that they're heavy as all hell and won't adhere to a wall with the standard sticky mounting tape - since real adult apartments don't let real adults use nails.

The Move, Part 2: The Rock to My Roll

I frickin' can't wait to not  live alone.

For the past five years, I've been in my "big girl" apartment, all by myself, living some version of the dream. Some of it was real swell, and I'll really miss it. But other parts of it were just plain awful and exhausting. Trust me, I'm all about being the independent woman, and I kind of rock at it, but at the same time, I'm kind of relieved to have a "person." Someone to share the load (Samwise Gamgee, anyone?) with.

There were plenty of times living alone where another person would've come in handy:

• When I needed help zipping up / buttoning a dress. We all know the hanger method, and we risk life and limb to look good, but it's a real pain.
• The times when I was sick and had no one to take care of me, so I just moped around being melodramatic. Being sick alone is like, the frickin' worst. 
• Opening jars. Sure, I have a rubber husband (that's what my ma calls those gripper things - get your head out of the gutter) and am stubborn as hell, but seriously. I've actually thrown away a jar because I couldn't get it open and was frustrated. 
• Speakkkking of frustration. Pictures for this blog. All the contortion moves to get my elbow out of view (only to end up out of focus). All those hours taking countless photos to get just one to turn out okay-ish. An assisted selfie would've been welcomed.

Hey, Elvis, you'll spot me while I hang upside down to get this pic, right?
Thanks, buddy!

And there are also plenty of reasons why living with my number one bang will be swell:

• He comes with Netflix. And Amazon Prime. And Hulu Plus. And all the streaming things. I'm not saying that's the only reason we're moving in together. But I'm just saying it sure doesn't hurt... 
• Food. He's a dang good cook - and has a Kitchen-aid! Plus, this way we'll have one fully stocked kitchen with which to prepare food, instead of the slippery slope that is the, "Oh, I didn't know you were coming over, so I only have vodka in my fridge... how about we just go out to eat?" For reference: see the ten pounds of "love weight" I gained the first year we dated (and have mercifully worked off). 
• Logistics. Finally no more back and forth. No more calling in cars for overnight parking (or forgetting to and panicking at 4 am before being like, "Screw it, I'll pay the ticket"). No more "your place or mine?" No more "shit, I forgot to grab my sunglasses / shoes / pills / life, we have to go back to my place." Hours of our lives will be saved by not having to coordinate this nonsense. AND I won't have to sound like such a pathological mama bear by following every goodbye with, "Text me when you get home safe." 
• Speaking of me being the walrus and logistics.... I started writing this post the other day and came back to just that starter line. I have literally NO clue where I was going with that, but I'm fascinated to find out some day. Huzzah open-ended thought!
• Insta-booty call! Right? That's a thing?? At least, I don't think I'll have to wait and text him (across the room) at 3 am. And if I did, what if he didn't answer? And I like saw him look down at his phone and make a sigh noise like, "UGH, not this bitch again, it's late, closed for business"?! Gah! ...I don't know, this is all new territory. 
• One set of things! No longer will I need two sets of makeup, two toothbrushes, two gym bags, two phone chargers. No more! It will all be in one place, just, with doubles of everything for awhile. But one place!
• No choking and being eaten by wild dogs! We all remember that episode of Sex and the City where Miranda starts choking to death, alone in her apartment. It scared me so bad that I ate nothing but ice cream for almost a year, just so I wouldn't accidentally die alone (or, well, that was my excuse anyways). And, as Bridget Jones so gracefully put it, living alone always comes with a risk of eventually dying, fat and alone, and being found three weeks later half-eaten by wild dogs. I'm hoping that both these scenarios can finally be avoided, just by having a live-in.
• He often treats me with the terrified kindness with which one would treat a pregnant woman. I pout for chocolate and an hour later he's like, "I got you some chocolate." And I'm like, "Wait, you left to get chocolate? When?" (pouting can cause a total disconnect from reality, as can a lack of chocolate) AKA he's the sweetest and treats me well - it'll be nice spending more time with my swell fella. 
• He balances my otherwise total chaos and high strung-ness. He's like the Mac to my Cheese. The Robin to my Batman. (Yes, I get to be Batman, I have a stronger chin.)
• The whole paranoia thing will hopefully be better. Because A) if I hear a noise in the other room, I can just assume it's him and not a serial killer and B) if that noise occurs in the other room when he is with me, I can send him to go see what it is, while I cling to the knife I hide under the bed and perch behind the door, ready to spring... so, well, okay, maybe the paranoia will actually be more dangerous than ever in this scenario, when I accidentally stab my beau. But maybe not! Maybe he'll just protect me and we'll be fiiiiiine... (Your Honor, I'd like to have this blog post stricken from any manslaughter investigations)
• Bloggin' beaus. Since we both blog, we can sit at our little kitchen table and write on our respective laptops. And I can be like, "Pass the sugar, babe." And he'll be all like, "But you're not drinking any coffee." And I'll be like, "I know..." It'll be BRILLIANT! 

In less than a week, we'll have the keys. It really is the point of no return. But luckily, that's okay, because as much as I totally loved living alone, I know living together is going to be even better... Or definitely better than being eaten by wild dogs, that's for sure! I'll set the bar there, and we'll work on stretch goals later.*

Steppin' into some unknown territory here! Putting our best foot(s) forward.

Click here for Part One: In which I totally freak the shit out.

Click here for Part Three: In which I build a rockwall.

*Seriously though, it's going to be fantastic. Don't let my snark fool you.

The Move, Part 1: Cohabitation Anxiety

I frickin' love living alone.

For the past five years, I've been in my "big girl" apartment, all by myself, living some version of the dream. This one bedroom, old school upper of a bright stuco house in the burbs has been my haven. I've lived above "my old lady" - who I'm still convinced has seances in the basement at night (or just really weird hours for laundry) - and have pulled together mismatch furniture / knickknacks into the perfect "twenty something" home.

Throughout my time here, there has been a variety of beaus, friends and family who have come and gone, stayed and went. But here I am now with one particular beau who outwitted, outlasted and outplayed the others in the game of relationship Survivor. And it's that very fella who is now scooping me up, out of the suburbs, into a new home downtown.

Cohabitation: it's the next frontier in adulthood.

That move is coming quickly, and yes, it's all very exciting and I'm stupid happy over the whole thing, but I'm also wickedly nostalgic. Granted, as a borderline pack rat, nostalgia comes in many forms (just ask the piles of old cards and movie stubs that I desperately cling to - my memories!), but this is a different kind of sentimental silliness. In this case, it's a sentiment towards my time of independence, of being young and single in a new city. A carefree existence - like a gypsy, but minus the caravan and curses...

Because moving in with someone I care about is like an awful prison?? Yeah, I know I just made it sound like that, but it's absolutely not that. It's just that living alone had such weirdly fun perks, and I'm just being honest when I say that I'll miss them. For example:

• Pants optional.
  Sure, they can be optional when living with someone too, but then I'd have to like, workout more so I don't feel self-conscious walking around naked. And ugh, working out more.
• Being able to pee with the door open.
  Again, could I do this while living with the beau? Sure. But I won't. Because I'm a g'damn lady, and the day he sees me pee is the day we break up. Sorry, modern cool couples who are totally okay with that, but it's just not my style.
• Dancing.
  With or without music. With or without vodka. Dancing around one's own place like a maniac, testing out those latest dance moves (just in case they finally call you back for that Center Stage sequel). There's nothing like busting a move when no one is watching and just groovin' your cares away. 
• Meal prep.
  Or lack there of. Feeding time runs on your schedule. You can experiment and if it doesn't work out, you can just trash it for the raccoons to fight over before anyone sees. No one is any the wiser, and no one but you will go hungry. Also, no one will eat your food in the fridge, so you'll never find your last yogurt gone. And, if you don't have food in the fridge, you can just get take out. Zero judgments, even if it is the third set of ToppersStix of the week. 
• Sickness.
  When I'm sick, I can be as lazy and disgusting as I want and not worry about getting anyone else ill. No more.
• The SIFWM factor.
  Living alone, I know where my stuff is. Things have their place and I either put them there or don't - it's up to me. Being a super paranoid and forgetful person, sometimes when living alone, I've ran into a "someone is fucking with me" situation. AKA, I put two figurines on my mantle and a week later, one of them is facing the opposite direction. There's NO way I moved it, so clearly, someone is fucking with me (my money is on the serial killer living in my attic). When there's another person cohabiting, it's a perpetual SIFWM situation. 
• Oldies but goodies.
  I listen to a lot of oldies music. My record player is typically bumpin' some golden jams of old. What happens when I no longer have a monopoly on the tunes?
• Lady time.
  Because sometimes I want to spend three hours trying to follow a hair / makeup tutorial on Youtube. And it usually involves a lot of swearing and broken dreams. Same goes for workout videos. No, I can't do a frickin' side plank and, yes, lipstick still illudes me - I'm trying!
• The bed.
  Sometimes I don't want to share. There, I said it. A good old fashioned starfish sprawl is necessary from time to time. 
• Free time, me time.
  There is nothing better than a two hour gab session on the phone, or having your girls over for some "let's eat pizza and bitch about our men" time. Do those go away when you live with the man you're gabbing about? There has to be some balance there. And you know, sometimes I just want to build a pillow fort, take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile. Can I still do that?

You. Me. Oui.

Let's look at the root causes here. What am I really afraid of? ...Being judged? Change? Not being in control? Beyond any of that, I know what it really is that worries me: I'm terrified that I'll do something wrong, or will be a disappointment. What if I don't bring enough to the table? What if he decides, "Ugh, this bitch is crazy, I'm out"? AKA I'm freaking out. Just a smidge.

That's what happens when you're invested in another person: you want to keep them. So, all these silly worryings and nostalgia about living alone, it's really just me being afraid of moving forward and letting myself be happy with another person. Normally, I'm the only only one in control of my happiness (or sadness), and letting someone else in on that game is foreign territory. There is some serious adulting that needs to be done here. Need to put my big girl relationship pants on and grow on up.

Luckily, I know it's going to be amazing. Sure, I'll still refer to the time I lived in "that cute little upper in the village" with a big grin, and will tell a few single gal tales of my time there, but that's beside the point. What's really important is that I work through all this with the beau. Because now it's not just me who decides how this goes, it's we.

At the very least, I'm pretty sure "we" will be on board with the "pants optional" plan...


Click here for Part Two: In which I get to be Batman.