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Head full of noise
Mar. 23rd, 2002 11:24 pmIn a few months, I'll be moving in with my boyfriend. It's something we've planned for quite some time, not a surprise or a sudden decision. I've known this was coming for months now. We've been together for years, and it's not as though we're rushing the decision.
Now that it's in the realm of soon-to-be-reality, though, instead of a vague someday, I can't stop poking at it with the corners of my mind, nudging it around and studying it for flaws and loopholes and snags. I'm a worrier at heart, and this is a situation rich with potential.
I know that we work well as a couple, and I know we can live with each other - we've done it before, though only for a month or two at a time. We've survived long-distance and we've survived being close together. There's nothing to worry about there.
But still... I worry about silly things. Both of us have twin beds, and that just won't work long-term. We need something bigger. We need furniture for the whole house - with his roommates moving out and taking all their belongings, the place will be barren. I worry about making the house look nice; over the past several years it's taken on a strong aura of bachelor. I worry about my girlie sensitivities clashing with his need to have at least some space in the house free of dust-ruffles, chiffon curtains, and little stuffed animals.
I worry about My Space and His Space, and striking a balance between alone-time and shutting each other out. I worry about the expectations and preconceptions that we'll both bring to this. I worry about adapting our living habits to each other.
It'll work. I know it will. We talk, we communicate, we work things out. We love each other. No matter how much I fret, I've never doubted that. But my mind needs something to worry at, and without anything more serious I wind up lying up at night concerned about the ugly wallpaper in the front hall and the division of closet space, and furniture rearranging habits, and what color to paint my room, and whether my desk will fit in the same room as my bookshelves. And where will I put my cookbooks? Do we have enough lamps? Will we strike a balance between my waking up early and his going to bed late? Will I be able to live happily with the Mirrored Orange DeathStar Coffee Table? What if, what if, what if?
Gaah. I need to go to sleep. And I need to spend tomorrow keeping my mind busy with frivolous activities - wash the dishes, sort the newspapers, clean my desk.... none of these things are actually worth worrying about, once I put them in words. They're all just mental chewing gum. I'll be fine. We'll be fine.
And now, to bed before I find more worthless things to worry about.
(What if the cats jump on the fish tank and knock it over, and all the fish die, and the carpet is ruined, and the floor rots, and maybe some wire or something is damaged and the electricity goes out, and the cat is electrocuted, and the landlord will hate me, and....)
(Shut up. Goodnight.)
Now that it's in the realm of soon-to-be-reality, though, instead of a vague someday, I can't stop poking at it with the corners of my mind, nudging it around and studying it for flaws and loopholes and snags. I'm a worrier at heart, and this is a situation rich with potential.
I know that we work well as a couple, and I know we can live with each other - we've done it before, though only for a month or two at a time. We've survived long-distance and we've survived being close together. There's nothing to worry about there.
But still... I worry about silly things. Both of us have twin beds, and that just won't work long-term. We need something bigger. We need furniture for the whole house - with his roommates moving out and taking all their belongings, the place will be barren. I worry about making the house look nice; over the past several years it's taken on a strong aura of bachelor. I worry about my girlie sensitivities clashing with his need to have at least some space in the house free of dust-ruffles, chiffon curtains, and little stuffed animals.
I worry about My Space and His Space, and striking a balance between alone-time and shutting each other out. I worry about the expectations and preconceptions that we'll both bring to this. I worry about adapting our living habits to each other.
It'll work. I know it will. We talk, we communicate, we work things out. We love each other. No matter how much I fret, I've never doubted that. But my mind needs something to worry at, and without anything more serious I wind up lying up at night concerned about the ugly wallpaper in the front hall and the division of closet space, and furniture rearranging habits, and what color to paint my room, and whether my desk will fit in the same room as my bookshelves. And where will I put my cookbooks? Do we have enough lamps? Will we strike a balance between my waking up early and his going to bed late? Will I be able to live happily with the Mirrored Orange DeathStar Coffee Table? What if, what if, what if?
Gaah. I need to go to sleep. And I need to spend tomorrow keeping my mind busy with frivolous activities - wash the dishes, sort the newspapers, clean my desk.... none of these things are actually worth worrying about, once I put them in words. They're all just mental chewing gum. I'll be fine. We'll be fine.
And now, to bed before I find more worthless things to worry about.
(What if the cats jump on the fish tank and knock it over, and all the fish die, and the carpet is ruined, and the floor rots, and maybe some wire or something is damaged and the electricity goes out, and the cat is electrocuted, and the landlord will hate me, and....)
(Shut up. Goodnight.)
