(no subject)
My parents asked me this afternoon whether I was totally sure about this whole moving-out-of-the-dorms thing. And my mental response boiled down to OMG YES ARE YOU INSANE, although I am not quite foolish enough to actually SAY that. What I said was all neat and polite and logical and reasoned, and we'll just ignore the fact that if I had for some reason to stay in the dorms now I would weep. (Not that it'll happen, what with sign-up passed and all.)
See, I'm almost unbearably excited about the apartment. (Especially if I can convince A to move in with me.) It's not just having Oliver there, either. (Though that helps.) It's the householding, the cooking, the getting to have a real house of my own. It's having a dishwasher and a washing machine and a stove and a place all my own. (Other human inhabitants are a bonus, to me. Especially if I get my own room.)
Which has led me to a very strange conclusion, one which would have given my twelve-year-old self a heart attack: I'm nesting. I've been coming to terms over the last four years with the fact that I'm really quite domestic, even if I still hate the non-tidying parts of cleaning. And I love the little routines of housekeeping, the feed-the-dog and fold-the-clothes and dinner-on-the-stove little touches that make it home, and I'm more than ready to have a home of my own to run. (Not that I'd ever want to be a housewife, mind, even if that were an option for me in the first place. I'd get bored.) But I really like keeping house, which is odd as it was one of the games I really hated as a kid.
Jury's still out on whether I really want children, or a family that's even a little traditional. It might not even be possible, which honestly makes me a little sad. I do rather hope I don't end up living alone permanently, though. I like people too much for that.
See, I'm almost unbearably excited about the apartment. (Especially if I can convince A to move in with me.) It's not just having Oliver there, either. (Though that helps.) It's the householding, the cooking, the getting to have a real house of my own. It's having a dishwasher and a washing machine and a stove and a place all my own. (Other human inhabitants are a bonus, to me. Especially if I get my own room.)
Which has led me to a very strange conclusion, one which would have given my twelve-year-old self a heart attack: I'm nesting. I've been coming to terms over the last four years with the fact that I'm really quite domestic, even if I still hate the non-tidying parts of cleaning. And I love the little routines of housekeeping, the feed-the-dog and fold-the-clothes and dinner-on-the-stove little touches that make it home, and I'm more than ready to have a home of my own to run. (Not that I'd ever want to be a housewife, mind, even if that were an option for me in the first place. I'd get bored.) But I really like keeping house, which is odd as it was one of the games I really hated as a kid.
Jury's still out on whether I really want children, or a family that's even a little traditional. It might not even be possible, which honestly makes me a little sad. I do rather hope I don't end up living alone permanently, though. I like people too much for that.