Ouch. Crap. Every day I trip over something on our bedroom floor. This morning it was a motorcycle boot. Yesterday it was a stack of weights. There is too much stuff in here. It’s our bedroom, living room, study, gym and garage. There is a bed, two desks, a sofa, a workout bench, three sets of shelves, two clothes rails, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. I have a pinterest board full of minimalist spaces, and am living in chaos.
Our engagement presents are in boxes in the wardrobe. I have a suitcase full of clothes under the bed. We keep boxes of kitchen supplies stacked in the corner. It feels as though we are waiting for our lives to start and we can unpack.
I tell people we will be moving soon, we just don’t know where yet. The possibilities are endless; we dream of a dozen different cities across a number of different countries. The freedom is both liberating and terrifying. We stay put.
What should we do? We could travel full time, rattling across continents in a Ural sidecar outfit. We could study for masters degrees, spend our evenings pouring over books and scribbling notes. We could open a restaurant, and spend our days and nights working harder than we’ve ever worked before.
On bad days, my impatience overwhelms me. I want to do so many things, but haven’t the money to do any of them. I trip over stuff and I swear at it. I feel sick with envy with each house-warming invitation that comes into my inbox. I don’t even want a mortgage and a white picket fence, but it still feels like progress. Friends are setting up home while we squeeze our lives into one room in a shared house, making plans and waiting for our wages to add up to something we can do something with. I am frustrated by the lack of space, lack of money, and lack of momentum.
And then, he looks at me, and I breath again.
We lie together on the bed and make each other laugh until our sides are sore. Or we lie next to each other, reading, writing, or each lost in our own thoughts.
It’s peaceful, companionable. It’s when I feel most like myself.
I bask in the glow of my third orgasm of the afternoon, and wonder if we would do this as much if we weren’t confined to one bedroom.
Our bohemian existence in our draughty attic room starts to feel romantic rather than frustrating.
My lack of disposable income starts to feel like a blessing, rather than a curse. For it forces me to be creative with how I spend my time. I would not have taught myself to knit if I could be out shopping. I would not spend so much time reading and writing if I could be out exploring the world. We would not spend so much time together if we had expensive hobbies to pursue.
I think that, in twenty years time, I might be nostalgic for these weekends when we have nothing to do and only each other for company.
And on these days, I wouldn’t want the first year of our marriage to be any other way.