So. Remember back in January when I lamented my lack of direction and my inability to formulate any plans for my future? Remember how all y'all said plans are overrated and throw caution to the wind and other such nonsense? Yeah, well, you win. Although I AM currently in possession of both direction and plans.
I've submitted my letter of resignation, informed my kids that I won't be returning next year, given notice on my lease, separated books I'll likely never read from books I can't bear to part with, loaded up my CD player with Eddie from Ohio in a fit of preemptive nostalgia, begun searching for good homes for my 40 or so houseplants, and struck up a friendly online relationship with the good folks at U-Haul. Oh, and I'm cheerfully burning through 25.5 days of sick leave. Because, as my boyfriend has already announced with his trademark brevity, I'm moving in with him. (He did elaborate on this exciting news by noting that he hopes I like frozen pizza, but that was pretty much the extent of his announcement. Now you know why I'm the designated detail-sharer. His detail-sharing lacks, you know, details.)
When Chris and I first started discussing the possibility of moving in together (back in January, actually, right before I started to lack direction), it kinda freaked me out. By which I mean it TOTALLY freaked me out, not just because it involved me moving to Michigan where I hear it's fucking cold, but because it involved me giving up some of my independence. "You know, you can live with a man and still be a feminist," my married friend G finally said, rolling his eyes after weeks of listening to me obsess and over-analyze. "I don't know," I responded, "one minute you're happily shacking up and the next minute you're shuttling a minivan full of kids from soccer practice to piano lessons to cub scouts, face to face with the problem that has no name." This only elicited more eye rolling.
I pretty much got over that whole Betty Friedan thing only to begin freaking out about my living-with-a-man track record, which is not pretty: I tried it once, and I didn't like it. To be fair, it took a mere five days to confirm what I'd known long before the good folks at U-Haul got involved, and my fiancé was not exactly shocked when I called the whole thing off. "I'm going to stay with my parents,"I announced, duffel bag in hand. "Okay," he answered, glancing from the TV to me, "but do you want to watch The Simpsons with me before you go?" which I think we can all agree is not the way normal people react to their fiancés walking out on them six weeks before their weddings. But I digress.
I've never been good with change, and I rarely initiate it. I've lived in Virginia since I was five years old. My only major move was two years ago when I relocated a mere 188 miles down the road back to the place I grew up in, so while it was a self-initiated move it hardly qualifies as major. My family and almost all my friends are in Virginia, not to mention the mild winters and my proximity to the Atlantic Ocean. I really love Virginia, despite our propensity to elect morons like George Allen, and I pretty much thought I'd stay here forever.
But then, I'd never fallen madly in love with a man who lives in fucking Michigan before. What's a girl to do but invest in a good pair of snow boots and throw caution to the wind?