I spent the greater part of Saturday purging, cleaning and organizing.
Bathroom cabinets were cleared of all their contents as I mercilessly chose what would stay and what would go. Old make up, lotions I’ve never used, and expired medicines all found a new home in the trash. Jewelry I haven’t worn in years sits in a pile now to either be taken apart to make new jewelry or given away. I stripped my bedroom closet down to bare bones filling 4 bags to donate.
In my hallway is a deep, cedar lined closet where for the past two years I’ve dumped all the stuff I didn’t know what to do with. Jackets, board games, a picnic basket, wires and cords for who-knows-what, scarves, hats, the file cabinet full of tenant folders and legal forms, a vacuum, an old curtain rod, old greeting cards and important papers. Even an ironing board! And I am pretty sure I haven’t ironed in, oh, 3 years. I attacked the closet with a vengeance pulling every item out and deciding whether it was going to my storage unit downstairs, being donated or trashed.
I was making space.
I am a person of action. I don’t do well sitting and stewing in my thoughts. I think better when I am doing. And in the doing I was reminded that I use planning ahead as a way of controlling my life and subsequently, my feelings. I’ve been lost in planning for a couple of months now- thinking about what I’ll need to get rid of and what I’ll need to move around, what kind of rug will go with the new couch and how I’ll find enough room for everything. I’ve been so focused on the details that I’ve successfully avoided feeling my feelings. And so I thought about color palettes and shelving and not how I was going to change to my life.
You see, Mr. Darcy is moving in.
This is a monumental happening as I have never truly done this before (nor has he). The longest I’ve lived with a boyfriend was a summer and we broke up at the end of it. I am not the kind of person who needs to see her significant other every day. I have spent a great deal of my adult life single yet actively dating. I’ve kept my independence ferociously even when I’m seeing someone. That’s probably why 9 times out of 10 I dated men long distance. For as social and outgoing as I am, my home is where I completely let all my guards down and get to be me. And so, in agreeing to co-habitate with Mr. Darcy, I am giving that final nod of approval, of yes.
I am saying- you can come in. To my heart.
He arrived mid-closet purge to find me sweaty and disheveled, surrounded by piles of my stuff. I hadn’t seen him for a few days and I was struck with how utterly adorable he is. How his eyes crinkle up in an easy smile. How his scent is now familiar as he pulls me to him. I took him by the hand and pointed out what I’d been doing, beaming a little with pride. We stood talking about how to modify the hall closet to fit all my clothes and he just kept looking at me with that look and trying to sneak in kisses through my words. With a mouthful of kiss I said, “You’re moving in.” And I finally, in that moment, FELT IT. Tears leapt up into my eyes because holy shit, I love this man. I love him so much I am willing to risk it.
We’re doing this. We’re going to live together.