Sometimes we make mistakes. Well, not so much mistakes, because I have become kinder on myself in my forties. Sometimes we enter into life lessons. Unwittingly. Yet thankfully.
I have moved in with my boyfriend/guy/partner/lover. Who knows what I should call him at my age. He’s great. I’ve moved in with a real person who listens to me and allows me to be me in a way no other boyfriend/partner/husband/lover has done. Big statement. Yet true.
I was given the job of finding the abode. It was kinda short notice. At least, that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. We are renting. It’s European. Not because we can’t afford to buy. At all. Not at all that I’m anti flipping a property. I’m just a dreamer. I’m all sourdough starter and bed and breakfast in the country. And those things aren’t for now.
Anyway. Long story short. Chequered love history. Met The Guy. He is cool. He’s his own man. He celebrates me being my own woman. He makes me think. I look forward to ever unfolding conversations about unfathomable subjects. And he is handsome. Lucky me.
Anyway. He trusted me with the abode. And I failed. Miserably.
This is disappointing in a myriad of ways. I don’t like failing. But really. I was seduced by fresh paint and floorboards.
He, in his bewilderingly trusting my judgement way, signed the lease without checking. Then we signed, got the keys, and went to the hellhole as I am now going to refer to it. Man eyes saw EVERYTHING. Beautiful floorboards AKA gaps under doors and cold. Unit AKA we hear EVERYTHING. For us, this means a chronic cough the neighbour has. For them, well…
We are stuffing blankets under gaps under the doors and hanging other blankets over the doorway which is romantically sans door. I’m having flashbacks to student days.
Last week I came home after work, went to the toilet, flushed and watched as the water rose, and rose, past the seat, over the seat and all over the floor. There is nothing more disturbing. OK. There are many more disturbing things, but this is my reality. And I’m going with it with all the hyperbole necessary.
The plumber came. “It’s a machine job,” he said after some investigation.
A machine job, for those who are unacquainted with such formality, means NO TOILET AVAILABILITY until the next day when this machine comes and does its thing.
Now I love camping and al fresco as much as the next person, but you have to understand, because of all the moving and decisions and so on, I am now in an altered state where EVERYTHING THAT CAN GO WRONG WILL GO WRONG. I’m willing it. Without even wanting to.
So the next morning. Well, let’s just say, there was a rose bush, a loss of balance and blood was drawn.
So now we are moving.
And it’s funny. In one of those hysterically funny moments where we will look back on this with a glass of wine and laugh, we are moving back into the building I moved out of. I mean, we couldn’t have lived where I lived when I was there, it was a tiny studio apartment. And clearly we needed a life lesson first.
I love life lessons.