My boyfriend and I had only known each other six months when we decided to move in together. I was thankful to get away from a roommate I didn’t enjoy. He was eager to leave the basement apartment he lived in. And, of course, we were completely smitten with each other.
Our friends gathered on a Saturday: we had the U-Haul, they provided the muscles. With each load we began to merge his collections with mine. I could see that his comic books as well as his books about languages such as SQL and Perl were going to be next to my copies of the Oprah Magazine and my French and Japanese texts.
After a day of moving we rewarded our friends with the consummate movers’ meal — beer and pizza. One pie for meat eaters another for the vegetarians in the crowd. They welcomed the beer without complaint. Sitting on the balcony of our apartment, muscles aching and slightly buzzed, I felt overwhelmed by the stacks of boxes inside. Could we really do this — two kids of divorced parents with only six months under our relationship belt?
We now have over ten years, seven of them married, under our relationship belt. We’ve changed the belt buckle a few times, cinched it and even added a few holes to make this relationship ours. Sitting on that balcony I feared what the boxes held for us. Thankfully we made the leap. We opened them, unpacked them and merged the contents to make a life together.