Excitement

I recently moved into a bigger apartment with my boyfriend. I am in fact sitting in said bigger apartment right now. More specifically in the bedroom...at a small corner desk...which if I am allowed to say, is a wee-bit too small. But I dont care. I dont care because said bigger apartment is in fact...simply bigger. Bigger than I am used to. -And I love the space. I love being able to go from the livingroom and into the kitchen...and to be in the kitchen without seeing the livingroom! Some of you may already have this and think: "so what?". But to me this is a huge deal.

When you move from a closet to an actual apartment, you have the issue of furniture...most of your furniture is bedroom type of furniture...You have a closet...and a drawer...perhaps a desk and a bookshelf. -And since your boyfriend also has a couple of drawers and a bookshelf...in addition to a truckload of useless crap (why cant men be more aware of aesthetics when they buy something?) the bedroom becomes indeed overfilled...somewhat similar to a storage room. And so the result of this is an over-furnished bedroom and an empty livingroom in your new apartment.

This, however, is where the fun of moving into a bigger space manifests itself. This is when you get to go out and buy new furniture! (all the girls clap their hands and the men sigh deeply).

So the other day, we had a fieldtrip to Ikea (Ikea, the only true friend of students) and came home with our very own dinner table. I realized as I came home from work last night, finding that Microman,-the boyfriend (no relation to penis size), had assembled the table, that I have never actually owned my own dinner table. -And the sense of pride I felt upon looking at this table frightened me. Yes it was expensive...but I have owned...and still own more expensive objects than this...and honestly; it IS just an object...a freakin' table to be exact. But I felf proud.

I wonder if the pride I felt was towards my man (the academic and not the handyman) who had assembled it on his own...or if it was the fact that we now have a dinnertable in our livingroom which is ours...bought and paid for...and not borrowed from someone else. I am afraid...I am scared that if I can feel proud of a freakin' table...I will indeed explode the day I sign the papers to my very own apartment. Or perhaps you get indifferent as you get used to it. I surely hope I do not. I hope I can stay excited about something as silly as a table...the same way I get excited about raspberry soda in the stores before Christmas...and "Three stories about Joan"...which for some scary reason may not happen...but it is still exciting...and I am still excited.

I dread the day I am no longer excited. May it never come.