In Transition

Yesterday, the boyfriend and I transported three boxes of my things and a large garment bag to his place - make that our place. My microwave also made the trip.

When I get home tonight (or tomorrow, depending on how tired and pissy we are after this football game), I will have to begin packing the bedroom and the hallway.

The hallway is going to be the worst part. I have two large ikea bookshelves filled with books, and with something like 20 or 30 photos of myself with loved ones prominently displayed in front of the books. An occasional candle and "special rock" or shell completes the picture. A friend of mine referred to the shelves as my shrine, and she's right, it pretty much is. Several of those loved ones are no longer living in this world, and many others exited my life in other ways, leaving me with memories and these few photos. I burn a candle, I hold the rock I saved from a vacation with this person, the shell that this other person gave me, and I remember. I still feel the love.

It's really going to suck packing 99 percent of that into a box, and leaving it in a storage cubicle for about two years.

I have told my boyfriend that maybe I'll be just fine, and won't miss my things so much. It's possible, maybe I won't. But I might. And if I do, I'll speak up about it, and we'll head out to the storage space, and I'll get my box labeled "photos." But I'm going to see how long I go until I do that.

I say two years because right now that's our working estimate. After then, we might be able to buy a house.

This is it. This is the real thing. This is what I have always wanted and thought I really wouldn't have. This is what I didn't get with the ex-husband. This is what about five or six other guys said they wanted to have with me, who had no idea how to go about doing it, and who were completely unrealistic and retreating when reality hit. This is what, when in the past I dared to imagine I might have with someone, usually became the area of contention that eventually led to a breakup. This is serious committment.

I am so happy I want to run down the street screaming and waving my arms and doing cartwheels and throwing chocolate chip cookies at everyone I see.

I am so scared I want to crawl in bed under the covers and cry, screaming cry, for hours, until I'm so exhausted I fall asleep and don't wake up for at least two weeks.

I am mourning the loss of something I can't quite identify, and I am celebrating the beginning of something of which I can only see the tip of the iceberg.

6 days to go.