I returned from vacation a day late, because I foolishly violated the fourth rule of travel:
- Never book yourself on the last flight out of town; it WILL be cancelled.
I promised myself when I started this blog that I would never whine about my boyfriend unless I could find some humor in the situation to offset the whining. So let's just say that I'm still looking for something to laugh about here. Soon as I find it, I'll let y'all in on the joke.
We're not breaking up completely; we're just moving from committed cohabitation to semi-committed semi-cohabitation. As in I'll still make the trek down to the sticks sometimes, and he says that he'll come spend some nights in my new apartment. But that may just be because he knows I got cable...
I love my apartment. I answered the ad on Monday, saw the place on Tuesday, and signed the lease on Wednesday. When I decide to turn my life completely upside down, at least I'm quick and efficient about it. But I have a sunroom in front and a deck in back, and a walk-in closet somewhere in the middle. I don't think I paid much attention to anything after I saw the closet. My landlord probably thought I wasn't impressed; I was just mentally arranging my wardrobe and imagining a life where clothes come off the hangers without wrinkles from being shoved into a space the size of, well, a non-walk-in closet.
There are still great vacation stories to be told. Like how, after two skin-cancer-conscious days at the beach, I got a raging sunburn from sitting in traffic with the SUV's sunroof open, and about my great relief that most of the guys at my 10th college reunion still had most of their hair. But I must depart. After two years of cohabitation and several before that with well-supplied roommates, I am lacking in many basic necessities of the single life. Like a broom. And a microwave. And a pint of Ben & Jerry's.
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