Mister Me Calls My Bluff

Oh… hello.

It’s been a while, yes friends? I must beg your forgiveness. I’ve been blessed/cursed with a promotion at work which has raised my stress level and my responsibilities but somehow not my bank account balance. Go figure.

I suppose I should tell you how things are going:

Fucking. Incredible.

While my work life has been tumultuous and stressful at best (and intolerable at worst), my love life has been rock solid.

Things lately have been daisies and summer breezes and sandy toes. Now I’m one of those obnoxious bitches who thinks everyone should find a dude just like hers.

I try not to say that to people but, you know, I think it.

Things have been going so well, in fact that I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the past few months. Mister Me’s house has become my daily stomping grounds. Even my cat has made the move. I visit home once a week and to grab clothes, collect mail, make sure my roommate is alive and check that nothing has spontaneously combusted.

But that’s all about to end because… Mister Me has asked me to move in with him.

Or rather, gotten more insistent about it.

You might remember I’ve been here before with Bald Deadbeat Tattooed Guy. That experience taught me several things:

1. Do not move in with someone you wouldn’t marry first.

2. Do not lend someone money continually for 8 months when you suspect, then confirm, that they are lying about their educational background, work history, drive to succeed or penchant for Jack Daniels.

… Or all of the above.

… Especially all of the above.

And 3. Do not, under any circumstances, compromise on closet space.

Luckily for me, number 2 does not apply and number 1 I’ve got on lock down. I’d marry that fucker tomorrow if he asked. He made me breakfast in bed today. Egg white scramble. In bed. On a work day. I’ll let that sink in.

So that leaves the closet. My one hold out. There just simply is not enough space in that little room for all my shit. Let alone all my shit and his shit.

I figured that little closet roadblock would buy me a few more months. I’m happy to deal with the mild annoyance of living out of a suitcase to avoid the pain and suffering of an actual move.  I’m prone to dealing with mild discomfort for long periods of time to avoid any sort of intense hardship. For instance, I lived with ungodly large thighs for 26 years before giving in to surgery.

Mister Me, always one to surprise and overachieve, called my bluff. In one trip to the Container Store, two trips to Home Depot, and a 5-hour string of profanity, he tripled the storage space and turned his dude-storage-room into a full blown walk in closet, complete with shoe drawers. Shoe drawers, people.

Now I’m out of excuses. He’s done his part and now I will do mine. Time to put my condo up for rent and start the slow move. Soon we’ll officially be roommates and the honeymoon will be over. Until the real honeymoon, which better be on the horizon.