Moving On

Moving house.  Very Stressful.  It's not even just the sheer depressingness of packing your life away in boxes and bags. It's trying to remember all the people you need to inform of this important change.  And then there's silly things like knowing I'll never get to complain about the size of my kitchen again.  At least for as long as I'm living in the new place.  And what about my bathroom ceiling mould?  That hopefully won't be a problem at the new place, but for some reason I feel I'm going to miss it.  But then I do rather enjoy to complain.  I do it so often it's become a part of who I am.  I've been a miserable sod for as long as I can remember.  Seriously, I was a cynical child.  I idolised Garfield and Grumpy Bear from the Care Bears.  No pink, happy bears for me.  I wanted to be the blue, miserable one.

So, the thought of leaving this house I've been living in for the past seven and a half years is giving me mixed feelings.  It's exciting yet upsetting.  I know where I stand here while there are so many unknowns at the new place.  Our new flat is gorgeous.  But it's a flat and I've not been in one of them since my disastrous relationship with The Ex.  What if my boyfriend, who we're moving in with, turns out to be like The Ex after all.  Sure, he seems all wonderful and nice right now, but what if?  And he is lovely.  He's honest in a way that continues to be refreshing even after a year and a half together.  My daughter loves him.  He loves my daughter.  He'll sit through my whinging, and listen while I complain yet again about The Ex and his moronic girlfriend.  And I do that often.  So why the sudden worry?  It's a big step I know.  And there's more than my future happiness riding on it, but my daughter's as well.

I'm trying to be optimistic though.  My worries are unfounded.  But we are all going to miss the cats next door.  Terribly so.