stepping out of the comfort zone
The short countdown for the BIG move into the new flat has begun.
We're 2 days away from the move-in/move-out on Sunday.
Am I freaked by all that is rushing round my head like a hive of bees disturbed from their usual nectar collection, honey making routine?
Fuck, yeah.
I've been treading in and out of my parents' ruling grounds so many times that moving half of my materialistic possessions out to some strange new living environment seemed like an annual affair. And it was not the least bit unnerving to fall out with my mum, pack my favourite things, and just catch a cab to anywhere.
But this. This whole business of buying your own humble abode with your significant other half and paying for the whole darned thing yourselves while making sure neither one of you starve to death trying to keep up the installments. This is what is serious nail-biting business.
Out come the calculators, pens and papers for jotting down sums and lists of costs, empty cigarette packs strewn all over the table, stubbed butts that have served their purpose during the discussion. The smell of smoke lingering in the air, creating an atmosphere of severity and formality no different from the aftermath of a boardroom battle of wits and figures.
Except that all these are much more personal. One tiny fuck-up and off you go into guilty why-don't-I-just-die land.
And that is what we've been trying so hard to avoid.
Our bank accounts don't add up to much. Well, not anymore. The figures seem to have taken a liking to kick some of their fellow numericals out of the total balance amount. Most of them get banished, never to be heard of again.
Ask either one of us about the figure 25,000 and we'll likely reply,
"Oh that one. Been gone for more than a year, I say. Don't think it'll be back ever again."
It's sad. But true.
And as the days go by once we move into this little space called home, we can only hope that one day a miracle will happen and bring all these long disappeared figures back into the little book of numbers again.
But as miracles go, they hardly happen.
We're 2 days away from the move-in/move-out on Sunday.
Am I freaked by all that is rushing round my head like a hive of bees disturbed from their usual nectar collection, honey making routine?
Fuck, yeah.
I've been treading in and out of my parents' ruling grounds so many times that moving half of my materialistic possessions out to some strange new living environment seemed like an annual affair. And it was not the least bit unnerving to fall out with my mum, pack my favourite things, and just catch a cab to anywhere.
But this. This whole business of buying your own humble abode with your significant other half and paying for the whole darned thing yourselves while making sure neither one of you starve to death trying to keep up the installments. This is what is serious nail-biting business.
Out come the calculators, pens and papers for jotting down sums and lists of costs, empty cigarette packs strewn all over the table, stubbed butts that have served their purpose during the discussion. The smell of smoke lingering in the air, creating an atmosphere of severity and formality no different from the aftermath of a boardroom battle of wits and figures.
Except that all these are much more personal. One tiny fuck-up and off you go into guilty why-don't-I-just-die land.
And that is what we've been trying so hard to avoid.
Our bank accounts don't add up to much. Well, not anymore. The figures seem to have taken a liking to kick some of their fellow numericals out of the total balance amount. Most of them get banished, never to be heard of again.
Ask either one of us about the figure 25,000 and we'll likely reply,
"Oh that one. Been gone for more than a year, I say. Don't think it'll be back ever again."
It's sad. But true.
And as the days go by once we move into this little space called home, we can only hope that one day a miracle will happen and bring all these long disappeared figures back into the little book of numbers again.
But as miracles go, they hardly happen.
Shelly breathed again at 1:23 AM
<< Home