Sure I had sleepovers, I had friends stay, I even had post-hospital stints where I stayed back at my parents for a few weeks. But all in all, for five sweet years, those two thousand square feet were my own.
I painted the walls wild colors. I bought a teal couch. I hung giant photos of palm trees, of me posing with koalas, of my friends and I laughing hysterically.
I broke shit. I fixed shit I broke. I you-tubed a lot, and consulted the google diary of home ownership more than an average person probably ever would (perks of owning a 1930s home, I guess.) And when I couldn't fix the shit I broke, I cried for a bit. Then I called my dad and he came and fixed it for me.
You don't really grasp the kind of freedom that comes with living alone until it's gone.
Gone are the days when I meticulously arranged my Tupperware, or I ran around with my pants around my ankles because the toilet paper needed refilled, or I stood on chairs to get the perfect angle of my homemade pizza for Instagram. Do you KNOW how weird it is for someone to walk in on you standing with the fridge wide open eating straight Parmesan cheese in your underwear on a Saturday morning?
On Memorial Day weekend, we said goodbye to Tate's bachelor pad in the heart of Indianapolis and moved him out to the suburbs. Being the type to always have something to look forward to, we (of course) fell in love with a house (also downtown) that same week, and if I remember correctly, had our offer accepted the day we were loading his eight--hundred pound dresser onto the trailer to go to the storage unit.
All of this to say that living with a boy is strange, strange territory. I'd like to think we're navigating it OK together. We've learned that I'm always right when it comes to taking the trash out, how to put away dishes, properly doing laundry, and so on and so forth. And I guess I've learned how to let him veg out watching four hours straight on the history of Irish Castles.
It is nice to have someone else to share doggy duties with, and my bed is a lot cozier now that I have a full-time snuggle buddy. I've enjoyed cooking for two, versus leaving myself with a mountain of leftovers. We've depleted my wine stock tenfold, and having the longest-running game of Rummy in history. We've managed to divvy out the chores pretty easily, and he makes me put away my clothes. Which I guess is a good thing, considering my closet hasn't 'thrown up' all over the bedroom floor in nearly 3 months now.
It still feels like this weird purgatory of having a boy living in MY space though. It's all MY furniture, my art, my routines and plans, my name on all the bills. And I can tell he feels like an extended visitor at times.
I think we're both in the same boat eagerly anticipating closing day (this Friday - eek!) on the new home. A fresh start for us to build a 'together' home.
Who knows, I may even let him have a say in how we organize the Tupperware in the new place?
