August 25th was my very last day of work in Williamsburg, VA, because John and I are moving to Boca Raton, Florida! That’s right, people.
Don’t worry, we refuse to grow up and will forever act like children. Having a home will not change us! We will definitely continue to volunteer the other to do the dishes, and I am sure John will find places to jump out and scare me every chance he gets.
I don't even know how to fully explain how John and I got to this point; rehashing our conversations would probably make more sense:
"Al, I think we might be moving to Florida!" John said, his eyes alight with humor.
"Wow!" I said, "I would love to move back to the beach."
A few weeks later John was in Connecticut interviewing with a different company, and I was thrilled for him.
"Al, we might be moving to Connecticut. I think they are going to give me the job," John said, his voice muffled through the phone. "I just heard from another company back down in Florida this afternoon, though."
"Well," I said, trying to snatch my emotions before they floated away, "that's really great about Connecticut!"
"Yeah," he said. I could tell he was doing the thing he does when he furrows his brow and sucks in his lips. "Thanks, you're actually the only person who has said that to me today."
"I think everyone was really excited about the beach," I said.
A week after we had decided we were moving to Connecticut John got a phone call from the company in Florida.
"Well?" I said, looking up at him in my doorway and knowing the answer that was on his face.
"We are moving to Florida," he said, quietly smiling.
"Oh, that's really great!" John turned to stare at me, the humor disappearing. "I'm excited," I said, my forehead creasing. "I just was also really excited about building snowmen with snow instead of sand."
"I'll take you somewhere it snows this winter," he said. I smiled with delight before jumping into his arms.
Now I am absolutely thrilled to be able to move with my very best friend back to the ocean. I grew up on the beach, and I have been feeling extremely landlocked lately.
In preparation for our move I have been doing all the necessary freaking out.
What if our neighbors are serial killers? How long until we have WiFi? What will our WiFi name be; it has to be funny and password protected. Will we have enough money for groceries? Gosh, I really hope we have a lot of windows. ARE THERE BOOKSTORES NEARBY?
However, I have also been daydreaming.
I even bought this adorable Market List notepad by Rifle Paper Co. for our fridge, and it still surprises me that little things like this make me really excited. It's adorable, right?
It also had John in hysterics:
“I think it’s hilarious that you think you’ll actually use that,” he said.
“Well,” I said, mumbling, “I will."
“You don’t cook,” he said, raising his brow.
“A market list isn’t just for food, John.” I said, adamantly. “And I do plan on cooking."
“I’ll believe that when I see it."
This conversation had me on a mission to find an awesome, healthy cookbook that would annoy him (see, still a child). And, thanks to Penguin Random House (you guys rock), I actually have Anna Jones’s A Modern Way to Eat now, and you can find my review of it here.
I'm secretly excited about having my own kitchen; I'm also secretly excited that John will be working in the afternoon and evenings so he won't be able to watch me embarrass myself or burn the house down. But maybe I'll want to burn the house down since he picked out the furniture.
"What kind of shower curtain should I get?" John asked. The Patriots spatula I bought him for Christmas dangled in his left hand. "Should I get a funny one?"
"I don't even know what that means," I said.
"Like, a funny shower curtain," he said, raising his shoulders like a little boy wanting cake before dinner.
"Just get a nice one," I said. "Maybe a dark brown one with some accents?"
"So you want me to buy the exact same one you had in Oxford?"
I looked away quickly, "Just don't get anything weird, and don't lose the receipt, please."
A few days later I received a text while on my lunch break at work. John and his dad had driven one of the cars down to Boca Raton with a few of John's personal belongings and 102 pounds of my winter clothes I had shoved in two suitcases before leaving Oxford in December. The Memphis, TN airport was gracious enough to not ask questions and had pity on my recent graduate status; I walked through security wearing the four coats I couldn't manage to fit in my bags.
"Hey, we-you-tomorrow-" he said, his voice fading in and out.
"Hey," I said, chewing on my sandwich, "You're breaking up."
"You need a new phone," he said.
"No, you do."
"No, I have all five bars."
I glowered at my phone; I had only one.
"Anyway," I said, "are you going to pick out furniture?"
It's not even that I feel like we need a lot of furniture; I would rather save money for dog food and books and soap and books. I just wanted to be included in picking it out.
"I'm going to pick out the ugliest furniture I can find," he texted the next day.
"Of course," I said, attaching an angry-faced emoji.
"I'm thinking bright orange," he replied.
It's really amazing how someone can make you despise and love them all at the same time.
(spoiler: John FaceTimed me at work so I could help pick out the furniture)
I am really excited about building sandcastles on the beach with John; I'll let you guys know how that goes over.