Bring. It. On.

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Bring. It. On.

Moving in with someone … That’s a fucking massive step, isn’t it? But it’s a step I appear to be taking with Bear. It’s a step we’ve been talking about for a while, too long probably, and too early on in our relationship too. But, six months in, we’ve finally made that decision. We’re moving in together.

It makes total sense really. I seem to be spending more and more time at Bear’s house. One rent payment each month would definitely be nicer than two. And the rest of the bills for that matter – adulting is expensive. Wouldn’t it be lovely to only need to pay half of those bills every month? I must be honest, it’s one of the most tempting reasons. Aside from actually wanting to move in with Bear, of course. And I really, really do want to move in with him.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

He keeps asking me, and I know why. It’s because he thinks I’m going to change my mind. He keeps telling me that he needs to pinch himself sometimes. He just can’t believe he’s found something as wonderful as “us”, and I’ll be honest, I feel exactly the same way. I keep waiting for all these disastrous things to go wrong, and although things ARE going wrong, it’s never disastrous. The Mac ordeal, for example, and the Brown Eyes drama. He’s still whinging and bitching on like a true loser over social media, by the way. I must give one hell of a blowjob to keep my name in his mouth six months later.

But things do go wrong. They have gone wrong. Bear and I have laughed or fucked our way through it all. It was when I was sat in the middle of his living room floor, crying my eyes out over the coffee-covered Mac that would no longer turn on, that I realised he was the one for me. He made me laugh. In the middle of that ordeal, thousands of words lost and all of them due for the end of the month, he made me laugh. Better than that, he made me belly laugh. That’s what he does. He’s the fixer. He fixes everything. Whatever it is I need, he gets it. And it doesn’t matter what it is either. If I want biscuits in the middle of the night, he gets them. If I have a broken computer, he takes it somewhere and fixes it. Well, ish. But the laptop turns on so as far as I’m concerned, he’s done a good enough job for me.

But moving in … It is a really big step. I do have reservations. As much as life would be so much cheaper together, and better, funnier, filled with sex and good food, arcade machines and sneaky, silent “parental” blowjobs in the bedroom while his son is in the shower, it’s a fucking scary step. I’m scared. I’m sure I’m making the right decision by saying yes to his moving-in proposal, but I’m still fucking scared. Scared shitless.

He’s going to see me pluck my chin hairs. He’ll see my using moustache cream far more than other women do, I’m sure. He’s going to see me when I break down over absolutely nothing in particular, usually because I’ve lost one shoe. He’s going to see me when I lose my temper with inanimate objects. He’s going to see how clumsy I am, and how many cups I break, and how many glasses of juice I knock over. He’s going to see me when I’m in insolation mode and I just want to be left alone. He’s going to be around all the time.

And that’s the biggest thing – I’ve never had a relationship where the guy has been around all the time.

I was an army wife and we all know what that’s like. I barely saw my husband, and I certainly didn’t see him on any of the special occasions – Valentine’s Day, anniversaries, birthdays, etc. He was never around. From that, I moved on to become an oilfield girlfriend on the other side of the world. Two weeks on and one week off, and a fun-packed social life at the same time … That’s what life was like with Big Love. We rarely spent any real time together, and when we did it was on our way to something – to go and be somewhere. And the only other man I’ve dated that I would consider serious and long-term was Jock … We never ended up moving in together at all.

I’ve never been in a relationship where the other person is around all the time, and it’s not just Bear I’ll be living with, his son will be around too. I’m going to have so little time by myself, and I worry that I’ll miss it. Can I really adjust enough to living with someone all the time? Not just part time like before with those other men, but all the time. Morning, noon and night. We’re both self-employed. We’re both at home a lot …

I know we’ve spent quite a lot of time together – days, weeks, and sometimes almost a month at a time, but is that the same as actually living with someone? I know it’s not, but is it a good enough run-up? A trial-run, as such? Is it?

I guess the only way we’ll really know whether or not I’m making the right decision is by doing it. Making it. So I did it. I made that decision. I’m moving out. Out with the old life with Bestie and all the hurt that goes with it, and in with my new life – girlfriend, hopefully future wife, and stand-in step-mother …

Fuck. 

Well, I’ve made the decision now, and despite what it sounds like I am actually super excited to just do it. I can’t wait for the day I shut the door on my old house for the last time. I’ve spent the last two years trying to find myself after Jock. In fact, it’s been longer than that. But I’m ready now, I think. I’m ready to be a big girl, and to have a big girl relationship. I want to be a live-in girlfriend, and eventually I want Bear to put a ring on my finger. Can I say that after just six months? I don’t care, I said it. That’s what I want. I want to live happily ever after with Bear. Bear and Rainbow. We’re so cute, it’s vomit-inducing.

The countdown has started – six weeks until life in the old house is over.

Bring. It. On.

Bring. It. On.

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