In early December, R and I, tipsy on Christmas lights and champagne, decided to move in together while drinking at a basement speakeasy bar in Chinatown.
We had originally planned on March 1 for our cohabitation, but after I paid my $100 utility share for a house I hadn’t spent the night in since early November, we decided maybe Feb. 1 was more fiscally responsible. Then the first week of January, my old roommates found someone who was looking for a room as soon as possible and 10 days later, I was packed up and moved in with R exactly 11 months after our first date.
I sold my bedroom furniture to the new tenant, sold the rest of my furniture in the common space to the household and packed up my clothes and many many pairs of shoes and moved six blocks down the street to R’s apartment.
I only cried once during the move, which I’m calling a win. Even if it was while texting my girlfriend “IT WOULD BE A BAD IDEA TO PICK A HUGE FIGHT WITH R WHILE WE WE ARE MOVING IN TOGETHER RIGHT.”
I didn’t, for the record.
A couple weeks after I moved in, I got home from class at 8pm, took off my pants in the hallway, ate a ham and cheese sandwich standing over the kitchen sink and crawled into bed with my computer to watch old episodes of “Homeland.” I told R he could join me in exactly two hours and not a minute sooner. He obliged. Bless him.
Do you want to know what’s pretty great? Walking in the door after a 12-hour day and someone handing you a grilled cheese sandwich. Or someone else stopping at the store when you’re out of milk and toilet paper and paper towel and tin foil. R cleaned the bathroom this weekend and I wanted to write his mother a thank you note.
So yes, things are quite well. Thank you for asking.