In a turn that is both entirely incongruous with our cautious personalities and totally aligned with the certainty and unflinching belief we’ve found in each other, M and I are moving in together later this month.
It may seem sudden and I keep worrying that some in my life have whiplash from the quick turnaround between The Man and M*, but I am certain. When I joked that my “We’ve moved!” email is going to prompt a series of “Who’s M?” replies, he suggested a postscript:
P.S. This is M —-> [photo]
For me, this means leaving the city for a quiet hill across from a massive park with old growth trees and a view of the Bay. For him, it means (finally) getting out of the apartment he has hated since he took occupancy of it years ago. It means a dishwasher, disposal, in-unit washer/dryer, and a second bedroom to use as an office. It means going to sleep with him, waking up with him, and having a partner in the choices I make, the challenges I take on, and the incredible joy of the everyday. It means that his collection of literature, history, and philosophy texts will mingle with my contemporary fiction and glossy art history publications. It means arguments over the placement of the sofa (the explanation behind choosing aesthetics over the surround sound sweet spot falls on deaf ears) and finally being able to host the friends who introduced us. It means discussions of budgets as ours and checking-in before inviting anyone to stay. It means an emotional as well as a physical shift. (If I sound like I’m anticipating a life of wine, roses, puppies, and rainbows, rest assured I’m not, but I’m moving in with a man I love who happens to love me back, so please forgive a touch of giddy optimism and I’ll get back to you after The Great Sofa Debate, Round 2.)
It also means you should prepare yourself for a whole lot of posts about decorating.
*For the record, there was absolutely zero romantic overlap, but I had known M for months before The Man and I broke up.