I’m still here. Well. I mean. I’m headed over there, but I’m here as in, like, still alive.
And mostly well.
Just moving. Moving is stupid. So, so stupid.
But it’s also fun. And exciting. The house I’m moving to has been one that I’ve wanted to live in since the first time I laid eyes on it, just under two decades ago.
Basically everything is there…most of it is even out of the garage, which was our staging area, and we spent our first night in our new home on Saturday. It was glorious.
And holy shit guys. Can we just talk about the fact that there’s a garage? A garage. That’s connected to the house. I feel kinda bad because it’s a two car garage but it’s been remodeled to be a workshop so one of the doors is closed permanently and there are cupboards and what not on the one side, so only one car will fit.
And that car? It’s gonna be mine. Because I’m the girl. More on that later. But his bike fits in there and without the second car there’s room for a treadmill, and we both benefit from that so. That’s fine. He’s fine. We’re all fine. But I’m not going to have to scrape ice off my car anymore and that shit warms my wasted-ass little heard, friends.
Anyhow. Friday was the last night I slept in what I now refer to as Hell House.
Amd holy shitballs.
I’m so excited. Moving has always been one of those things, for me, that you dream about but you never think is actually going happen. Like winning the lottery.
Or getting thin.
Anyhow. I’m totally jacked up and I can’t wait to just be in.
Like, fully in. And settled.
Not only am I leaving behind the memories of my past and my marriage, I get to be happy in the knowledge that I know the person who’s renting the old place and I know that he’s going to fix it up and make it new and that he and his soon-to-be wife will be making excellent memories there. They’ll cleanse it with their good vibes. I’m sure of it. And that makes me happy because other than what happened to me in that house, it’s a great home with a convenient location and plenty of space.
But it is a starter house, for sure, and I have for sure outgrown it.
Also for sure.
Other than the chest pain/heart palpitations I’ve been having over the move…
…they’re more or less decreasing.
I’ve… we’ve been doing well.
The new fella has been helping and taking it like a damn champ.
I remain in awe of the patience and resilience the man has shown. He’s not defensive. He’s not invalidating. When even I would be both of those things, were I to find myself in his shoes, he just crawls right inside of my suspicion and insecurity and sits there with me. He holds space. He doesn’t freak out. He has a lot of the same ways of relating as I do, but none of the anxiety or neuroticism.
His personality is such that he defuses major fights between me and the girls before they jump off. I feel calm when I’m with him. And I never, ever feel calm.
I feel the same kind of happy when I look at him as I do when I look at pictures of my kids.
Or my actual kids, when they’re not annoying the hell out of me.
That in your chest electric kind of happy. Not the honeymoon stage dopey kind of happy, but the gentle, warm kind of happy.
It feels natural, and comfortable. It feels like we’ve known each other a long time. It feels like coming home after a long trip. Or like encountering a childhood friend unexpectedly in late adulthood.
And he’s not scared off by the fact that I can trust him completely one day and be jumpy and tweaky the next. It’s like the gentle descent of a leaf on a mild breeze, learning to trust someone again after being burned badly. The general trajectory is toward a terminus. It’s a constant movement down toward settling in. But it’s neither direct nor unidirectional. It’s back and forth while being in a sort of sloping, swooping motion toward an eventual soft landing.
And he handles that as if it doesn’t scare or irritate him in the slightest.
And I think that’s the only reason I trust him at all, and the reason I can’t imagine not trusting him, eventually, without question or restraint.
The girls adore him. They are having the easiest time in the whole world attaching to him, and that is probably my favorite part of this whole unexpected turn of events. To see my kids experience a healthy attachment to a male authority figure who’s done more, truth be told, to earn the title than their own father ever even thought of when he was still a member of our family on more than just a biological level. It makes me start getting all stupid and weepy just thinking about it.
Seriously. Turns me into a total fucking chick and shit. It’s disgusting.
I got this little fall mini photo session from my cousin, like as a gift, and I invited him to be in some of our photos. And as I was working on this post I was overcome with the urge to share some of the photos. So I texted him and asked whether he’d be okay with his face and name being on the record here as intimately associated with us, and with me, and with all of my many layers of craycray.
And he said he couldn’t wait to read it when it was done.
Without further ado, I give you the 28-year-old firefighter I could never have predicted would be anything other than a fun transition man. A ferryman on my journey back into the deep end of the dating pool.
I’ve never been one to want someone to go out with.
I’ve always been the type of girl who much prefers someone to come home to instead.
And I think I found one, completely by happy accident, and without even having to try.
This is Marcus.
And I like him a whole fucking lot.