|This closet diagram also makes a good approximate floorplan for our new apartment.|
Well, it's about that time.
If you haven't picked up on the many hints and references I've been dropping, it's officially official...my time in my beloved Treehouse is just about at an end. As of next Friday, I will have moved into my new office and the 2-bedroom apartment attached to it.
(That's my latest excuse for neglecting umf...I'm doing all this grown-up ass moving shit. I'll be back full-time when this circus is over.)
Note the lack of possessive language. "The" apartment as opposed to "my" apartment. Unfortunately, I don't get all this space to myself. "I" don't have an apartment anymore...starting March 1st, I will live in "our" apartment. "Ours" being mine and my tag-team partner's (baby DX will reside there as well, but he doesn't pay any bills and therefore only technically counts).
Excuse me while I freak out slightly.
I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm kinda excited about this new phase in my life. Shannon and I have spent lots of time together before this, so there won't be too many surprises living together full-time. I've heard her try to sing in the shower, she's seen me do any number of random quirky things...unless she worships Satan when I'm not around, that part should be okay. Even the baby isn't quite as unbearable now that he's old enough to be somewhat fun, but it's just kind of--wait, did I say a new phase in my life? That is not helping my freakout.
I don't know, it's just that for the last 3 years or so, everything has been mine. The furniture was mine. The food was mine. The electricity, water and oxygen were the property of AJ Moses. Mine, mine, mine. Sure, it sounds like a toddler's interpretation of things, but it's true. Possession is 90% of the law (I hate fractions).
There are a lot of memories here too, all mine. I made my first self-perpetuating munchies here. I did not bring Purple here. The serious part of my writing career (less "killing a lunch break" and more "killing my need to be told when I can eat lunch") has all taken place here. I probably accidentally manufactured my first child here.
Well, that part may be a shared memory, but for a number of reasons it makes a perfect segue into my next point.
At the new place, pretty much everything not painted blue is shared. It's not mine. It belongs to the Shanthony entity. The furniture is ours, even though some of it is the same damn furniture. We now have to figure out a default room temperature for our home. (I'm a spring, she's more of a fall.)
Hell, there will be less painted blue in the first place...where my crib looks like some weird combination of a poorly-organized college dorm room and a Cowboys-themed sports bar, our apartment will probably look like our lives collided and spilled all over the place. (I'll leave that one alone.)
I'm probably going to have to relearn to pee standing up in our fairy princess bathroom. That's definitely not mine any more. It'll probably be so feminine I'll feel the urge to do it sitting down.
Even my time is shared. All the new furniture and shit we bought had to come from a store, and this means we had to visit said store to obtain these items. During the last month or so, I have repeatedly walked into stores with no toy, video game, sports collectible, or general fun section on purpose and spent hours there. Who am I and what have I done with me?
Not only that, I actually spent large sums of money in these establishments. The time it took for my check card to clear at the mattress store was an epic internal review of all the fun shit that could be purchased with those hundreds of dollars...but those dollars are no longer all mine either. Good thing I don't work too hard, I'd get a heart attack (ack-ack-ack-ack).
I'm also not stupid. Moving together with a woman (especially one with whom you share a kid) puts things on a rather inexorable course, if we are to stay together. Suffice it to say that no further changes in my lifestyle will probably come as a surprise. Different kind of guy I am, I'm still a guy and I'd be typing lies if I said it didn't scare me a little. Strange thing is I'm not as uncomfortable with the thought as I thought I would be. The fact that I'm not freaked out about that honestly freaks me out.
It's not all bad. "Being domesticated before the age of 25", as my homie D so helloquently phrased it, does come with a few benefits. I get to spend each day and hopefully a few nights with the woman I tolerate (okay, love...it's often the same thing, one just sounds nicer in greeting cards). I get many meals that were not frozen in a box beforehand. I even get to babysit every day...wait, that's not a benefit.
Also, I get a special little room I can hide in when domestic life gets a bit too much for me. I'm calling it my office for tax purposes (and because it's true) but it doubles as my fortress of leave-me-the-fuck-alone, so it's a multipurpose room.
It's just gonna take a bit of getting used to, I guess. The biggest part about this move isn't the distance...I could probably throw a football from here to the new place with a strong wind at my back. It's all that it symbolizes...the craziest part about this process is not the moving out, but the moving on. In the new place, almost nothing will belong to just me. It just can't work that way any more. That's a pretty damn new concept in my life.
Hey...at least the other tenant is still very much mine. It's almost a fair trade.