The official move was on the Sunday before Thanksgiving. And since moving in together, I had to “trick” the boyfriend into tossing several of his possessions away. Before you crucify me, I will list a few items for your judging pleasure.
1. An old napkin from his 3rd job.
2. A shriveled up Magazine with Thalia on the cover.
3. A shirt that no longer fit him that also had 6 holes in it.
4. A package of oatmeal. Really?
5. A belt that never should have been designed. (I should’ve taken a twitpic of it)
But now, I come home to find more items being tossed out as he frantically goes about his new-found pass-time, “This has a spot on it” or “This towel no longer provides that fluffy comfortable feeling”.
I also participated in the ritualistic “parting” of several items so it was all fair and dandy for this Mexican too. And while strolling to the train this morning–of all the garbage bags sitting in a heap on our corner–someone managed to rip open our stuff and spread it about like is was garage sale season in Oklahoma. I wasn’t sure if I should have been flattered or horrified?
And all the while, as “the move” occurred, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Does the concept of compromise increases when you take that leap and move in together or should it have been present–and in equal proportions–all along?” Did you have to throw anything out in the name of compromise? Leave a comment.