I think I could blog or talk about moving all day long for several days in a row. Tonight I realized that this is home, this is where I live. I can't really claim to live at my condo any more when most of belongings are here and I've slept here for the past week. Yes, it's been a week. I still don't have a closet, the dog only leaves the bedroom being carried, and my belongings, including half of my clothes and all of my food, are in the garage, but this is home. And I'm adjusting. I'm easily adjusting to the long, lovely drive through the country to get to my clinic in the morning and to waking up next to my partner every morning.
Not so easy are his criticisms of everyday behaviors like throwing my towel on the bed. It's hard not to come back with a sassy 'get the bed out of my office/dressing room and I won't throw wet towels on it.' That may come out soon, but for now, I'm still feeling pretty zen and compassionate. Compassionate to the difficulty that this man has making space for me in his home. Though he loves me and loves having me here, my moving in is clearly difficult. I imagine that I take up a lot more space than his previous live-in girlfriend who moved in at a very young age with few belongings and a significant power differential. I don't know if she demanded a whole room for an office, a whole bathroom for her own personal and mysterious uses, complete control over the kitchen and his sharing of the PlayStation.
I'm getting better at not thinking about her and making comparisons, but she still comes up, mostly for me. Today I asked A if the woman's shampoo's in my shower were hers from four years ago. He laughed and said he wasn't ever that hung up on her. They're his moms as are the other miscellaneous womanly things I found upstairs. Hm. All I have to say on that is never get between an Indian woman and her son.
I told A he's the first boyfriend I've ever lived with. He didn't believe me at first. I don't know if he believes it now, though it's mostly true. My friend and neighbor is 47 and has never lived with a man. I go back and forth between feeling like I'm not so bad and thinking I'm a monster for that first thought. Is there something wrong with not having lived with a partner til x age? Moot point for me now, because even if his not-really-letting-me-move-in and towel fits drive me away, I can say that I lived with him.
In any case, I shouldn't let my thoughts ramble so, I've got boxes to shuffle and unpack, things I need immediately to locate and one box that I'd forgotten about until just now that leaked water during loading, though it shouldn't have had anything wet in it. Better get on with that.