When I moved into my last apartment, G. and I had just started dating. For the first time in the history of my moving life, I let the boxes sit unopened for weeks. I couldn't be bothered with my customary rush to get everything situated as quickly as possible, so busy was I with the task of falling in L.U.V. It was months before that place was completely assembled, and those months were some of the best I've ever had.
I didn't learn my lesson from it though. Since we've moved in to this new place, my almost desperate instinct has been to UNPACKRIGHTAWAYORELSE, despite my outward insistence that I am going to take time to set our home up properly, even if it takes a while. I've lost sleep the past few weeks over the state of the office and living room. I've had small waves of panic while thinking about the inside of our kitchen cupboards.
But I've been forced, in spite of myself, to take this homemaking process slowly. I haven't been able to rush it, haven't even had time to shove things into closets so that the place looks shiny on the outside. And yet, somehow, slowly...
Just now, sitting on the couch with G., talking about what to order from the Thai restaurant down the street, looking over his shoulder into the dining room at the evening sun streaming through the window on our two plants in their brightly colored pots, at the green glass knobs I bought to replace the old ones on the dark wood cabinet, at our stark white wedding china mixed with my red latte bowls, I realized the pace is perfect.
