Or: Why I Should Really Stop Moving so Much
Back in January, at the very fresh start of the new Year, I ceased to be the last single girl in my pride of ladyfriends. Two friends of mine conspired to bring me relationshipical bliss by introducing me to the man now known as Boyfriend.
He’s the bee’s knees, folks.
There are many stories about my adventures with Boyfriend, but today, I am only telling one. Today’s tale, sweet readers of the Internet, is about the time Boyfriend asked me to move in with him. It wouldn’t be much of a story if I said no. Not to ruin the ending or anything, but I said yes.
Those who know me know that I have moved frequently in my life for reasons ranging from “my parents are moving and I am a minor and their legal responsibility” to “I am bored and would like to try having adventures in a new city/state/geographic location.” So I’d like to say I’ve gotten good at moving by this point in my life.
What I have become skilled at is enlisting everyone I know in the moving process. My excellent friends are completely aware of my semi-routine nomadicism, but still come to my aid, lured by the promise of pizza and adult beverages*,
*Like extra large chocolate milkshakes and banana smoothies.
This last move, however, happened without much planning**. Boyfriend and I had decided to live together, so obviously, that should begin immediately, right*?
No planning at all.
***Not when you own 8 million pounds of stuff.
So, with barely two weeks’ warning, I declared that my apartment’s contents would be emptied and relocated into the house-to-be-shared. This should not be a huge problem for a girl moving out of a one bedroom apartment.
Except that I am a 29 year old female American.
Which means I have so. Many. Things.
And with only two weeks’ notice, I could only gather**** three friends to tackle the movement of all my worldly possessions.
****Bribe, blackmail, and beg.
So Boyfriend’s family also came to help.
I had not yet done much packing.
Including his dad. On Father’s Day.
Which is what happens when you move too often and don’t plan. So a general consensus has now been reached.
I’m never moving again.*****
*****Seriously. I have too many things.