The urge to merge, people.
It’s a real thing.
I’ve spent the last month packing up my life and dragging myself across the country for my new job, leaving R behind for 2 weeks while she finished serving her notice at work.
So we were apart for 2 weeks.
2 weeks? No big deal, right? I mean at one point we lived in different countries, and we managed that just fine.
Maybe it would even be nice. A little space to lounge around in my ugly, comfortable trackies that I keep promising to throw away, be a slob, fall asleep on the sofa watching my trashy TV shows with no one to judge me. It could be brilliant.
And absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?
It appears over the past 2 years of living together, R and myself have merged. And seeing each other every day and doing 90% of all our activities together has taken its toll on my sense of self.
Because on that first night when I was alone in a new house, in a new city, about to start a new job, with no TV and no internet and nothing to occupy myself, I was a complete mess.
Without R I felt utterly lost and like a completely different person, and an incomplete one at that.
We’d…We’d become one of those lesbian couples.
And we’d become…the boring lesbians.
You know the ones. Where when on the rare occasion they go out, it’s always together, and they spend the evening talking about their cat and forcing you to look at pictures of him, regaling you with the tale of his recent bladder infection, before leaving at 9pm and scurrying off back to their domestic haven.
That was us.
So now, it’s a whole new start. A new city where people are unaware that we’re intrinsically lame and secretly dream on nights about heading home early to a cup of tea and an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.
We will actively combat this merging.
We will have our own separate sets of friends. Our own hobbies that don’t include the other. And will go out and stay out past 10pm.
Fight the merge, people!