Messy

It’s funny how much of adjusting to marriage is negotiating space. It’s not like “Trading Spaces.” No bright red paint on the walls, no gold-foil or silver spray paint. No big reveal when all the furniture has finally been arranged. Instead, marriage is a million small, seemingly insignificant compromises.

Some of it is negotiating physical space. Where the wet towels get hung. Who sleeps on which side of the bed. Sharing blankets and coffee and the bathroom counter space. Some of it is not physical space, but requires much of the same finesse and grace.  Who should get up first when the alarms go off in the morning. Who pays the bills, and what card should be used to put gas in the cars. Who will remember to pick up the milk and who hates to run errands on the way home from work.

So, to make this more complicated, we’re moving next month. Hopefully, it’s a semi-permanent move, because I’m really not enjoying the mess that comes with packing. Messy is not a word I normally like to associate with myself, and moving involves a lot of it. Oh, and we’re trying to rent our apartment early, so there’s been some fun with staging a one-bedroom apartment when a complete corner of the apartment is filled with boxes and boxes of books.

The good news? What the glorious, unprecedented mess of unpacking will be on the other side, into a wonderful home of our own.* We are moving out of the city and into a small town, a nice distance from both sets of parents, and well situated for work. We are moving to a kitchen with room and space to cook together without a well-choreographed dance of knives and hot pans.

The same things that make life complex also make it the most precious.

*Well, the bank’s, really, but these days, who’s counting that? ;-)

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