The ramifications of moving into an apartment with my boyfriend, Dave, next Friday are suddenly becoming transparent. I will soon be washing his clothes (he doesn’t know how), cooking his dinners (so long as they aren’t Ramen noodles, breakfast foods or hamburgers), and generally just living with him.
That’s it right there: I will be living with him.
I was never one for roommates. My sister often found herself bruised and bloodied from the years we spent living together. Often times, the cuts and scrapes she received from our time residing in one bedroom together were the result of me trampling her in the morning as I slid from the top bunk, let my feet grasp her bottom bunk mattress, and then eased to the carpet. Apparently, basic hygiene escaped me as a child because it was my toe nails that would leave long scars down her cheeks. That is horribly disgusting now as I reflect on the moments, but when it happened and she would have tears in her eyes with a burning cut across her face, I shrugged it off and went on my way. (You’re thinking I’m a terrible big sister, butI’m not.)
In college, situations hardly improved. I had two roommates that were completely unbearable and made me almost hate human contact, which would lead anyone to believe I shied away from the notion for quite sometime. No, actually, it’s quite the opposite. I had some sort of masochistic fascination for punishing my senses raw and decided the best idea would be to join a sorority and live with 30 people, sharin only one bedroom and two small bathrooms. That in itself defines misery.
But now I am here, today, really realizing what this is going to be. There will be a cozy living room, a dining nook, a tiny kitchen, and a bedroom just big enough for two people. One big bed to share at night and a place to hang on cold winter morning in January.
I guess I never entirely thought about how big this really is in respect to our relationship and our lives. This is the beginning of the rest of our life together; we may be different, but we are no longer separate. When we mouth the word “home” it will mean the exact same thing.
I suppose the best way to sum up my elation and happiness is this: the bed is no longer just mine, it’s ours.