So, anyway. I’m moving in with M, for reals, in just about a month. I gave notice at my building today.
In many ways this is something of a formality—my cat has been at his place for 3 weeks or so already, which means that my apartment is merely serving as a very expensive storage unit for my furniture and the residence of an awesome closet that holds an ever-decreasing amount of my clothing and shoes. (I will miss the closet at the apartment, most definitely. Someday, when I am a millionaire, I will have a walk-in with French doors and a shoe rack installed in my palatial home, and lo, it will be awesome.) This arrangement, this expensive-storage-unit-arrangement, is (mostly) stupid.
On the other hand, of course, the current setup preserves my ability to take my cat and go home if I want to, which I am about to give up. And I am quite aware, quite well aware, that a breakup becomes much, much more stressful and horrible when it must be combined with packing, with moving, and going through that process of getting disentangled from someone (which pretty much always sucks) is more difficult when you’re living with them. You can’t just say “nope, done” and leave. This is a bit scary.
For me, this is a bit scary because, well, I got to go through the horrible breakup process not so very long ago—under two years ago, in fact. And it did, indeed, suck most tremendously. And here I am, voluntarily and of my own free will, putting myself in the position of having to go through a very similar process in the event that things don’t work out between M & I. And doing so in what could be considered unseemly haste by some, since I did very little dating before landing myself with M, and landed myself with him less than a year after the previously-referenced horrible breakup.
Additionally, I think—expect, in fact—that M is a bit jittery at making this step official, because his previous live-in relationship took a sudden and major nosedive shortly after they moved in together. I’m willing to bet that the circumstances of that relationship’s demise contributed to M’s stated preference of moving me into his existing shared house, rather than moving together into a place on our own (though I know it’s not the only factor—his current house is definitely stellar, and I’m looking forward to being able to officially co-host gatherings there).
So, there is some fear here, because we’re upping the stakes. I suppose that someone could argue (not that anyone has) that this means that I’m not ready, that he’s not ready, that we’re not ready. I wouldn’t agree, but then, you wouldn’t expect me to, would you, since I’m choosing to do this?
The truth is, while I am afraid—I will lose more, hurt more, if we break up down the road—I am also excited. I love M. I love that he appreciates me, I love that he is affectionate, I love that he cooks for me, I love that he enjoys it when I cook. I love that he values what I do around the house, and that it makes him feel cared for and special. I am looking forward to seeing his house as ours, to having our furniture side-by-side, to being sure that he and I will sleep next to each other. When I think about all the things I am looking forward to (most of which are completely prosaic and dull) I am very happy about this plan, and mostly feel lucky that I hooked up with M without a lot of hassle and false starts beforehand. The fear, the worry—that is what comes up when I deliberately think about what could go wrong, and how hard that would be.
So, am I justifying? I don’t know. Am I a classic serial monogamist? Probably. Am I rushing things, or deluding myself into thinking that this relationship is the right one? I don’t think so. I hope not. I’m hopeful. I think this is a good choice.
