The future is moving into an apartment on Monday with, for lack of a more fitting cliche, the love of my life.
In between bubblewrap and backpacks, my mind has recurringly floated to another cliche concept. In a day, I’ll be having a sleepover with my best friend every night.
Tomorrow, we will move our messy pile of boxes and bags across the island. We’ll carry them up two flights of stairs and we will be home.
The first thing we'll do is throw everything into one big pile in the center of the family room. Then, we'll walk around the space and measure the walls. Should we put a bed here? What about your desk? And where would be the best spot for my exercise bike?
We'll pick our bedroom—I already have an idea—and he will get to work reassembling my bedframe. Our bedframe. I'll wash the sheets. We have in unit.
We'll put our nightstands on either side of the bed and decide how to best utilize the closet space. What about when we have guests? What about when you're on a work call? Could this be a pantry or does it make more sense for linens?
We need to buy a microwave. Should it be purple like my air fryer? And what about the kitchen island? It sure would make a cute coffee bar.
Oh the tea we will drink looking out this window. Oh the books we will read sprawled out on the floor.
No of course we don't have a sofa. We don't have curtains. We're hoping they have blinds.
But none of that really matters. At least not immediately. At least not right now. Oh yes, we'll want curtains. But for now, we'll settle for a bathtowel and thumbtacks.
And yes, we'll want a sofa. But for now, we have a single rug and a yoga mat.
Thank goodness for an air mattress, a ladder, a tea kettle.
In one wake-up, I will be going to bed in a messy apartment with my best friend. I will wake up with lists of things to do and things to buy. It will feel like chaos for weeks or even months. But it will feel like ours.
And the home will be filled with love. And the home will be filled with laughter and joy. And most importantly it will spill over with respect and decently and kindness for everyone who steps through the threshold.
We will go through seasons in that apartment—by Mother Nature and everything else. Seasons where we dance to the music that was popular when we were in middle school. Seasons where all our friends cram into the space to celebrate nothing other than being together. Seasons where I make tiramisu for the apartment and cinnamon rolls for the office. Seasons where we love our jobs. Seasons where we hate our jobs. Seasons where we read and write and create. Seasons where we don't feel any bit of inspiration.
The thing is, I don't ultimately expect utopia. I think it would be foolish to say so. Any shift in living situation is a drastic upheaval of what we knew and that in and of itself is bound to bring discomfort of some degree.
But what I do know is this: We are going to be just fine. We are going to have each other and we are going to have the communication skills we need to talk through any problem. We are going to be filled with so much love and joy and passion and creativity. We are going to support each other to be our best selves... and be patient when only our worse shows up. I couldn't be more excited.
