While it’s a balmy 76 degrees here in Jers, I’m sure the devil is reaching for his parka because Hell has frozen over. I’m sure of it.
Steve and I are moving in together.
Surprised? Not as much as me.
When Steve and I started looking for an apartment it never even occurred to us to talk about moving in together before the wedding. We assumed that I would move into the apartment in June and that Steve would wait ‘til everything was official in November. Everything we knew about his parents led us to believe that they would never give us their blessing to live together and even the conversation would lead to a big fight, so we didn’t push. Then Saturday, while at lunch Steve surprised me and told me that his parents thought that we should move in to our new apartment together in June—with the understanding that his grandparents never find out (cheers to old people not knowing how to use computers). Even with that stipulation, up was down, down was up, green was red and nothing I ever thought I knew made sense. And then I had to tell my conservative evangelical Christian parents. Thankfully, I’ve always known them to be much more reasonable than most of their peers and they agreed that it was a suitable arrangement and that it was our decision to make.
We’re very excited to be moving in together (read: have nightly TV marathons starting with Castle & Seinfeld) but know that living together means making lots of changes (read: I’M GOING TO HAVE TO KEEP EVERYTHING CLEAN… like the for-real kind of clean not just the throw-your-dirty-laundry-into-your-suitcase-before-guests-come-over clean and I’m a little sad about that).
Every night I push the pile of clothes on my bed onto the floor and then
pick them up leave them on the floor and start a new clothes pile in the morning on my bed for me to shove off when I go to sleep again. Don’t tell me you don’t do this too.
I take the Schrodinger’s Cat approach to cleaning: if you can’t see the cereal bowl sitting in my laundry basket then it is both there and not there until someone discovers it is there—and I’m banking on them not looking, so for everyone concerned, it’s just as well not there. But really, of course it’s there. And I am both dead and not dead until Steve looks in the laundry basket, and then I am just really really dead.
Come to think of it, I believe that our parents are using the Schrodinger’s cat approach to us moving in together too, but they have no interest in opening the box to see what we’re really doing—or not doing. ; The don’t ask, don’t tell policy is still alive and well at the Hutchison-Wean household.