In case your desire for angst is not quenched with this blog’s contemporary portrait of my life, check out The Angst Archives, where I’ll be publishing real excerpts from my childhood diaries. Always looking for new ways to embarrass myself on the Internet!
Contrary to previously harbored beliefs, moving in with someone is not at all like the “House” game we played as kids. In our naive child imaginations, mundane tasks like dishwashing and cooking dinner took on grandiose, mythical proportions. Oh, the freedom of having our own set of dishes to muddy and break! I do not entertain that sort of whimsy anymore; plus, I’ll never look as cute in an apron as I did at age six.
I am moving in with my boyfriend, and it is all of these things at once: terrifying, exciting, amazing, relieving, and claustrophobic. Over the past few weeks, we’ve slowly been moving my stuff into his apartment: the framed photos came first, then some of my favorite dresses, and on Saturday we moved my cat there. In some ways, I have actually taken to domesticity with the ardor (and drunkenness) of Betty Draper, lusting after multi-hundred-dollar Dyson vacuums and searching for “small space decorating tricks” on Apartment Therapy. I’d even make the bed every morning, but I really don’t want my boyfriend to develop unrealistic expectations about my orderliness.