It's weird. Chef Boyardee and I are moving in together. Well, I guess that isn't so weird. What freaks me out is the fact that I am excited about it.
When I first moved to this town (oh, this glamorous town), it was so I could live with my boyfriend. I didn't want to. I didn't speak up for myself, either. I convinced myself that it was a good idea.
Well, it wasn't.
Living with him was HORRIBLE. Do you hear me, world? HORRIBLE! The first night we moved in, we got into a huge fight and he didn't talk to me for three days. It just spiraled down from there. I didn't help the situation by not taking care of myself and ignoring all the warning signs.
When I left, it was the best feeling ever. EVER. I remember sitting with Puck and Zoey, my dog and cat, and telling them, "This is how it was always supposed to be." I swore I'd never live with a boy again, unless I had a big, diamond ring and pre-nuptual agreement.
And I did.
Sure, it's great, at times. I love living alone and making a mess and walking around in the nude. I love being 100% responsible for me and not having to compromise on what tv show to watch or what to eat for dinner. It is all about Me! Me! Me!
But that gets old.
You can go the entire weekend and realize the only conversation you've held since Friday night is with the cat. If the electricity goes out, there is no one around to hold the flashlight while you try to cook dinner. And don't even thing about being sick. No one brings you ginger ale or a cold wash cloth. You have to drag your sick ass up off the couch and do it yourself. Not fun.
So, along comes this boy.
And it is So. Completely. Different. I find myself wanting to be a person who shares things. I want to take care of him and let him take care of me. That doesn't mean it is easy. I still don't trust him to get things done. I don't trust him to put my feelings before his own or remember to clean out the cat litter.
But, I think it will be okay.
I really think it will be okay.