The Move

I am standing in front of my new apartment building, fumbling with my keys.

Let's see...the small round one is for the front door...or was it the big square one? Ah, yes...here. Ok...and the little rectangular one is for my mailbox...Do I have any mail? Here's something for...Timothy Miller? - must be the last tenant - and a flyer for Curves addressed to "Juana Flores - or current female resident"...huh. Must be for the tenant two tenants ago. Hrm. I guess that would make me the 'current female resident', then.

I have moved into a new apartment. A studio apartment. For the past two years I had been living in a spacious two bedroom with hardwood floors, dishwasher, central heat, central air, free washer and dryer on a quiet street right next to a Trader Joes. I was also living with a roommate. And now I'm living in a 400 square foot studio with carpeting and gas heat and coin laundry. But - I no longer have a roommate.

Four months ago, my roommate announced that he wanted to move out into his own place. This did not come as a complete shock to me, as I never imagined that when we moved to Chicago and moved in together - it would be a permanent arrangement.

But I knew I had to figure out a plan. Should I stay in the apartment and look for a new roommate? Should I move into my own place? Should I move in with the Dashing Litigator?

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"Why don't you just move in here?"

We are sitting at his kitchen table. I am sipping a glass of wine, he a bourbon. Duncan is between us, chewing on his stuffed dog toy that we call "Karl with a K".

I smile and take a long slow sip of my wine before I answer.

"I can't." I say, "You know I can't."

He smiles, and I know that underneath it all, he truly feels the same way. "Alright. But I want you to know - if you have trouble finding a place and you need to stay here for a bit, that's fine. Don't stress about it."

I fully realize that in this year of 2006 it is becoming more and more acceptable for unmarried couples to cohabitate. Whether it be for financial reasons, convenience, or because they just plain can't stand to be apart - couples are shackin' up. I know many who do it successfully, and kudos to them! But for me, it just isn't an option. I would never dream of it. Call me a traditionalist, idealist, a hopeless romantic, incurably Catholic, whatever - but there you have it. I've always upheld the belief that there was something sacred and meaningful about not living together until you are married. Sharing a name before sharing an address.

Now don't get me wrong. I certainly spend a lot of time at the Dashing Litigator's. And yes, when I'm there with him and sweet Duncan...it feels like home. And though I may have clothes, toiletries, even tampons at his place - my mail does not go there. I do not live there. This is just something that will happen in it's own time. And now is not that time.

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It's the day of the move, and I have been packing nonstop for the past four hours, taping up boxes, cleaning out my refrigerator, making countless trips to the dumpster. I'm already a sweaty, stinky mess and the move hasn't even officially started. The Dashing Litigator will be here at any moment to start loading up his SUV.

That's right, he is helping me move.

He's convinced me that movers weren't really necessary as I didn't have much stuff. "I mean, you have, what - your bed, dresser, small couch and clothes? That shouldn't be too hard."

But now as I stand in the middle of my very echoey apartment, surrounded by rows upon rows and stacks upon stacks of bags and boxes, I start to panic.

I have a lot of stuff.

I mean, a LOT of stuff.

I'm praying the Dashing Litigator won't notice. I'm remembering what my friend Trista told me when she found out that we were going to tackle the move ourselves. "You're going to have a fight. Trust me on this. Moving is stressful."

I prayed she was wrong.

The Dashing Litigator arrives and kisses me, telling me I look cute. He looks beyond me at the aforementioned 'stuff' and is momentarily taken aback.

"Jesus, Carrie! Um... you do realize you're going from a two bedroom to a studio, right?"

"Hey! I know it looks like a lot, but...it will fit." I try to convince myself...but even I'm not so sure. We dig in.

Six and half hours and nine trips with the SUV later - I am moved.

By the time we make the final push, we are both exhausted and starving, dirty and depleted - but - we have not had one fight. Not even close! We hauled and we lugged and we carried - chugging water to stay hydrated, occasionally 'pantsing' each other on the stairs, flipping mattresses over railings, giving each other high-fives and salty sweaty kisses - surprising ourselves with how strong we were together. But truth be told, my Dashing Litigator carried the bulk of the heavy stuff. He is an Adonis. Not much has been written on his physique, but let it be known now. He is one finely built man. And the sight of his body lifting and pulling and performing such grueling manual labor was like a delicious carrot dangling before me, urging me onward to the finish line. The finish line that ended at Moody's pub, with a pitcher of Michelob and two blue cheese burgers.

This, my friends, was love. Helping somebody move has got to be somewhere around the third level of hell. As I looked across the table to my Dashing Litigator, both of us happily filled and drowsy on burgers and beer - I wondered if I ever loved or appreciated him more.

Be that as it may...I know I can't push it. If we do end up sharing a residence in the future, and we are faced with another move, this crazy actress and self-proclaimed pack rat will need to make some changes...as well as some trips to the Salvation Army.