A Real Live(-in) Boyfriend

So it's past 12AM on a school night, and my whole house smells like cookies. Why? Because at 10PM when my boyfriend and I were enjoying the first .5 seconds of time together in three days, I scadaddled off the couch to make cookies, like a totally normal, sane person would do at bedtime. I mean, it has absolutely NOTHING to do with the pent-up anxiety that I have from his sudden pending move into my apartment.

And by sudden, I mean, I nagged him nearly every day for the past three months about moving in with me to save money, to spend more time together, every day access to sex, yadda yadda yadda. But then he actually said yes. And I was all, "Uh-huh. Well, if you move in, we're going to have to ______." And he seemed pretty cool about all my fill-in-the-blanks.

But he seemed to be dragging his feet the past month. As the ending summer months flew by and most college students found other apartments, I gave up hope and thought, well, a spring move-in will be fine. I'll have 6 months to really dig into all that herbal and essential oil treatments I've been getting into. I'll read books. Keep training for races. Pick up 15 new languages, learn to knit with cat hair, and take up whatever other hobbies lead my fellow 33-year-old women into insanity because they've driven away their boyfriends who won't "take the next step in their relationship."

After many-a bitchathons (a contest I need no training for), eventually, he said, "Stop saying 'if' and say 'when!' I AM going to move in with you! It's just a matter of time." Mmmmmhmmmmmmmmm. Eyeroll. Long sigh. "Yeah. Right. We'll see."

Then, on a random Tuesday afternoon, I get a series of calls/texts from him at work, which is totally abnormal for Old Nick With the Flip Phone With T9 Text Function but becoming more normal for Loves To FaceTime Nick With an iPhone 5c. He says to me, "How soon do you think I can move in?" I said, "Today, why?" Joking. Right? Joking. I'm joking here because clearly I'm a shrew and he would have seen this by now and wouldn't still be considering moving in with me. Right?

"Well, I talked to my landlord and they said people are looking for studios." I assume they are full of shit, they want him to move out before they show it to subletters but want for him to keep paying, so I back off the nagging maybe down to 85% strength, and go about littering our discussions with "If you move in...."'

And then he calls on Thursday and has me craft a write-up that night for Craigslist to see if anyone's biting, and four days later, someone's looking at the place, and he and all 13 of the items he can squeeze into a studio are moving in this Sunday. THIS SUNDAY.

SUNDAY. AS IN FIVE DAYS. Suddenly I'm gripped with a fear that he's going to find out that I'm really an ugly, disgusting monster unworthy of love and affection, and I'm a hoax and really not all that witty, and he should really run for the hills because I'm far too crazy to be loved, let alone lived with.

Aside from the typical self-deprecating, self-loathing mumbo jumbo bouncing around in my head, there's all the typical shit that flies around when people have to cohabitate. I have to suddenly stop shitting with the door open. No more eating cheese for dinner in my underwear on the couch while laughing with My Best Friend Mindy Kaling and drinking beer and ignoring phone calls because "my nails were wet" instead of "I had my mouth crammed full of a spoonful of stale potato chips and French onion dip."

Me in my reality:

Me in mind:

No more are the nights where I slide under the covers in the center of the bed, form a U-shaped fortress of pillows around me, and then use the cats as mini-space heaters for my frosty appendages, despite the fact I keep it a balmy 72 degrees no matter what. Now I have to share what is seemingly smaller and smaller of a queen-sized mattress with this giant. (He is 6'5" and I lurve it, but now there is no escape from Mr. Big in my bed.) He likes it 68 degrees maximum. He takes man-dumps, which I have to pretend are manly and I take girl-dumps which I have to either (1) hold in painfully until after he leaves for work or (2) pretend don't exist and that the cat just keeps farting or keep a good perfume in the bathroom which I will waste by spraying IN EXCESS after said poops.

It's not like we don't sleep together already a few times a week, but now it's like there's this infinite "ALWAYS" and "FOREVER" hanging over my head. The first sign of him hogging the bed (which is a joke because I EASILY take up 80% of the bed on any given night--his presence or not), my mind starts racing with "HE ALWAYS HOGS THE BED" to "FUCK THIS SHIT" and "I'M NOT PUTTING UP WITH THIS SHIT FOREVER."

And my mind shoots me right to where my depression/poor self-esteem/relationship drama/self-fulfilling doomsday prophecy of breakup bullshit wants to go.

So all this energy erupted when he came in, godforbid, to TALK TO ME WHILE I MAKE COOKIES. Ummmmm....doesn't he see I'm BUSY?!?! What? Comcast?!?! I don't give a FUCK about Comcast or renter's insurance right now. These cookies neeeeeeeeeeeeed me. Perhaps you didn't understand that. *melts boyfriends face with displaced anxiety directed in anger at him*

Fifteen minutes after he leaves the room and goes to bed, I realize that, perhaps, once again, I have lashed out in fear and turned into that shrew that Terrible Kerry wants me to be so I can be the victim-martyr in my own sob story. You know, kind of like most of the women in my family. (I digress.) So, I tuck my tail between my legs, realize that he is doing me a solid, and explain why I'm so crazypants.

I climb onto the bed with him. "Sorry I'm a shithead and yelled at you about Comcast. We will figure it out. And sorry we didn't *girates hips*." He laughs. This is a good sign. "Besides, we have everrrrry daaaaaaay together soon." He laughs again. I'm on a roll. "I'm just a little nervous about us living together, I guess. I haven't lived with someone I've dated in 9 years. NINE. YEARS."

"I understand. I am too, but it'll be okay."

"I love you and just don't want to mess this up."

"I love you too."

"Even when I'm a terrible meanie pants like tonight?"

"There are people who treat me way worse than you did tonight....on a daily basis."

"Give me their names and I will smash their faces." Klassy Kerry Keeps It Real.

"But seriously, babe. If I didn't think it would work out, I wouldn't be doing it."

And just like that, poof, most of my anxiety is quelled.

There's something about just hearing those calming words that say, "I'm scared too, but together we'll work it out" that makes everything feel like it's going to be okay. Like this isn't a fight against each other but some sort of lovey dovey journey we're taking together. And in my mind, we held hands and gallivanted over a hill to a castle in fairytale land.

I'm sure there will be more anxiety, and I will probably have a melt down when the last of his things have breached the threshold to my apartment, but alas, I'm done cooking now, and tired. And I have to go steal the covers from my sleeping giant.