This old house.

The nostalgia pangs have attacked. With ten days left in The Carriage House, they have started tickling my skin, whispering into my ears, and poking at my heart. On Saturday, we made our last late-night shopping run to the Queen Soopers (you locals know the reference), and shared a little sigh of regret that we will not see quite so many Goths and drag queens and what-the-hell-is-he-wearing/muttering/doing types in our Boulder grocery. Then, on Sunday, we walked through the beautiful Country Club mansion district to Cherry Creek North, gaping at the enormous homes and crunching the leaves beneath our feet. On the way home, as the light was fading, I realized it was the last time I would walk this walk, and a little cloud dropped over my mood.

Yesterday morning, waiting for the bus at 5:30 a.m. with the nice white-haired gentleman who always stands aside to let me board first, I realized that I'll only wait at this bus stop at this ungodly hour perhaps another six or seven times. At the gym, I stood back for a minute and thought about how many mornings I've spent dressing, putting on my makeup, and chit-chatting with this same group of women over the past seven years. I will miss them, though I hope the change to comfy, professional-laden commuter busses and lunch-time workouts will be for the better.

This morning, I woke groggy and decided to skip spinning in favor of doing yoga at lunch. I lay in bed for a litle while, staring at the emerging shadows through the skylight over my bed. Soon, there will be only ceiling above me, and I won't be able to gauge weather, watch lightning storms, enjoy the pattering of the rain on glass, or gaze at the stars without leaving the cozy warmth of my covers. More than anything about this house, I will miss the skylights.

At the same time, I am also counting down the last few days of true single-girlhood. Though we will not marry for nearly a year, in ten days we will merge our lives and our households in a far more practical sense. I am bubbling over with excitement about this, and truly can't wait until Steve and I and Shasta and all our gear and clothes and STUFF live under the same roof. Still, I'm savoring these last few days of sleeping diagonally (at least a few nights a week), making weird pseudo-meals of leftover brie and a microwaved sweet potato, and watching train-wreck TV dramas to which I am secretly addicted (oh, fine - Nip/Tuck, if you must know).

I've grown up, in many ways, in this house. It is a symbol of my independence, the home I bought when I realized that waiting for a man to sweep me off my feet was a losing proposition. It has sheltered me through three job changes, two bouts of the flu, assorted sports injuries, and too damn many breakups. Steve kissed me for the first time in front of the french doors downstairs, and much of our relationship has unfolded within these walls.

Now, would somebody please buy the place already?!

Comments

[Anon]

This post eloquently captures the excitement and anxiety about abandoning ones single life. I find myself also thinking about my own guilty pleasures (Everwood instead of nip/tuck) as I consider cohabitation. Congratulations Mad!