So. Moving out.
Even though I did it for the first time almost five years ago now, the idea of doing it again surfaces a mix of emotions for me. Excitement, nostalgia, anxiety, a sense of freedom.
To be honest, I'm rarely ever home. Wednesday night is my weeknight sleepover night with Ryan, and then I spend the majority of the weekend at his place, which is about 45 minutes from my parents' house. When I'm not spending time with him, I make dinner dates with friends and I go to at least one after hours event for work per week. Getting home at 8 p.m., in bed by 11 and up by 7:30 a.m. doesn't really leave much time for me to spend at home. Because of that, I have less time to get annoyed by my mom and dad's antics and more time to wonder why I so desperately want to start paying rent.
Then I remember my dorm, my first apartment, my second apartment. I remember living with the best roommates, cooking my own food, retreating to my bedroom without an explanation as to why I'm being antisocial. I remember how good it feels to have my own space and then I start actively searching for the perfect 2/2 apartment, at the perfect price, in the perfect location.
Don't get me wrong - my parents are extreeeeeemely laid back. I have the kind of parents who, if I called at 3 a.m. and said 'AYYO I'm drunk and I don't want to drive,' they wouldn't ask questions, they would just come get me. I could stay at Ryan's for a week straight and they wouldn't say a word - they'd just miss me. They're super flexible and accommodating and, you know, my parents, so I don't really have much room to complain.
But anyway. The point I'm getting at is that while I'm in no rush (tentatively planning on moving out in June, but not too worried about it), I'm also getting super freaking pumped to a) be living with my best friend Kaylee and b) to decorate a new apartment.
Ahhhh. Change is coming. Good change, but change. And I'm weird with change.