A new chapter will begin in my life come this Saturday, as I will be doing something I’ve never done before (and let me tell you these sort of “cherry popping” situations get rarer and rarer with age).
I, a twenty something random ass Laura, will be moving in with my boyfriend.
“Oooh, she sounds stressed, she’s not ready yet” you may think.
But actually? Quite honestly? I feel completely ok about it as it feels like a very natural step to take. Not because of age or other modern pink fluffy female factors you can read about in Cosmopolitan; but because of him. He suggested it. I shrugged (wonderful girlfriend as I am), and eventually said yes because I had no reason to say no. After all, we love each other and loose so much time commuting to our respective soon-to-be ex-flats (damn you London!), so… What’s the big deal?
Speaking to friends and family, the general response is surprise, as I haven’t freaked out yet, because “OMG you’re moving in with your boyfriend” (so what, am I like supposed to faint and pee my pants?). Cue another Laura-shrug, and out of my mind such comments go.
Eventually, following a couple of wine glasses and a particularly annoying phase of PMS, I did wonder whether it was normal to not freak out. The outcome of that introspection was “naaaah girl, chill; ya good“.
I also asked Him whether we should go mainstream and freak out a little. Feedback – nahh. We’re happy and that’s all that matters. Simple and oh so true (bless this boy’s thought process).
Nevertheless, it’s not all rosy; the Physical Act of Moving stresses me out so much that my glass of wine needs a glass of wine of its own.
“Shit – I’m going to loose a chunk of my deposit because of that candle soot stain on my WHITE wall (update – I painted over it. With the wrong colour. Why am I allowed to be an adult)”
“How many back & forth trips in shitty London traffic will it take?”
“The new flat is amazing but OH MY GODD it’s actually quite small when you make two human beings share, especially if one of them has SO much non-emotional baggage (can you guess who)”
“I have too many shoes and clothes but I LITERALLY can’t throw anything more out (cue internal sobbing which makes me look like a constipated philosopher)”
“He’ll need to put me on a leash in IKEA because otherwise #ripcreditcard ”
But then, all it takes is one hug from my future flatmate, chief in charge of anti-stress cuddles & glorious Saturday breakfasts, and everything sort of feels.. Feasible. The hurdle shrinks and the frown turns upside down (bloody hell, who am I and what have I done with Laura!).
My relationship in a nutshell pic.twitter.com/GLltwsnlFW
— Laura N (@laurajobu) August 28, 2016
I also tell myself that as we won’t be commuting to each other anymore, I wont have to deal with bachelor pads that don’t have conditioner in their showers and my hair subsequently & quite inevitably looking like the fur of an ungroomed dog; or waking up with partially hairy legs and damning yourself to the bottom of the earth because you and your hairy legs agreed to spend the weekend there & there’s no shaver in sight (legit 21st century female probrems!).
So I guess, the bottom line of this rambling I started writing during my commute halfway underground London is that even though I will dearly miss my hood, my flatmates and my current understanding of home; I feel happy and ready to explore this new & shiny chapter in a new & (less) shiny part of town, in our very own nest. After all, I will get to fall asleep and wake up next to someone that defines a big part of what home represents for me right now, and that’s a pretty damn great thought.
What about you dear Reader, how did you transition from flatmates to The Flatmate?