Despite all my best intentions, that first week with Greg in the house was a huge adjustment, for both of us. Coming home to his smiling face every day was awesome from the get-go, but dealing with boxes and lots and lots of stuff that wasn't mine was more challenging.
Growing up I was one of five kids. I didn't have my own bedroom until I was 16, when my father built a wall in the middle of the bedroom I shared with my sister. I had to walk through her cubby hole to get to mine, but I could finally dress in private.
I have had a roommate my whole life, save four awesome months when I first moved to Portland. My house is the first time I've had space that was just mine that I could decorate however I wanted. I could be a totalitarian dick and tell potential housemates that their furniture could go in the basement but not the living room. Artwork choices? All mine, baby.
So I was having a hard time adjusting to the fact that there was now furniture that I didn't pick out and that wasn't necessarily my style in every room. Somehow the fact that there was a traditional couch in the living room made my brain set off alarms, like OH MY GOD, I'M LOSING MY INDEPENDENCE. As if it's totally logical that ceding the living room to a man's couch will result in you being forced to quit your job and have babies.
It sounds ridiculous, but the couch is really big! I think girls less Type-A than me might be unnerved by that.
Luckily for both of us, we had a great weekend. He got most of the boxes put away and he set up the basement, the basement that I spent four months refinishing, only to never use it. He set up a TV and some surround sound, and got the couch all situated. On Saturday we watched Band of Brothers, our legs up on the ottoman, covered in blankets, glasses of wine on the TV trays, and. It. Was. Awesome. That was when I told him, "Do whatever you want in here; I don't even care if you paint over this paint color I like so much."
I would like a medal for that.