Because he basically lived at my apartment, we made the decision a while back that David would move in with me. We picked February 1 as the official date, and then we pretty much did nothing about it. So that his old apartment still had a bunch of stuff in it and he felt obligated to pay his room mate there for the month’s rent.
After we conceded that we really needed to take a weekend off of Tahoe-ing to make this happen, we set a new deadline for the official move-out/move-in as March 1. And so, I watched him sort through lots of stuff, determining what could be thrown away and what should be relegated to one of his various hiking backpacks to bring over. Said backpacks are now in piles throughout the apartment, mingling happily with the piles of totes-o-crap that I collected from my towed away car on Sunday. There is a certain charm rendered by a pile, at least in my apartment, anyway.
I keep saying “You’re my room mate!” to David. And it feels funny. Grown-up. Even though I’ve already done this part. But I amazed that it is real. That he wants to live with me and my bonkers cat. (Speaking of which, observations of David and Maple could, and maybe will, be a whole separate post.) I get a person who makes decisions about what to eat for dinner. And puts up shelves. With a drill(!) no less. A person who will pair my socks. A person who will even go looking around in all the places that I might be inclined to discard socks, when it is time to do laundry. I get to live with a person who will always want to sneak onto my side of the bed, no matter how big that bed might be.
P.S. He also wipes the fogged-up bathroom mirrors with toilet paper, the lintiest material known to mankind.