Olivier and I moved in together three months after we met. It was, perhaps, the craziest, least well-thought idea I have ever had. Well, that’s a lie, but it is for sure the one crazy idea that I have actually acted upon.
I was not convinced it was a good idea at all. I barely even knew this guy, what the hell was I doing packing my bags and moving in with him just like that? I didn’t even know if I liked him enough to live together. I had only met him three months before and he spent a month in Italy right after. In reality, we had only dated for a little less than two months. Oh, boy.
Did I like him that much to spend every hour of my life with him? I had never moved in with a significant other before – fuck, I didn’t even know if I could call him that at that point – and my previous experiences with roommates nearly ended in murder.
But I did anyway. I told myself that this would be the best way to find out if I really liked him since I did not want to waste my time anymore. I had already spent 10 years with a guy that was not The One; I did not have the energy or the patience to put up with another relationship leading nowhere.
Also, I had to move out on very short notice and my joke of a paycheck (which was actually the first one I had received in a year or so) was not that amazing to afford a place of my own. Life was not hard, but it was complicated enough to take on his offer.
My parents and friends, and everyone else who knew about this, thought I was delusional. They even offered me a couch to crash in when (not ‘if’) I eventually needed it. Not the kind of encouragement I wanted, but not discouraging enough not to move forward with it.
That was three years ago. Olivier and I are still together to this day and we even got a cat. I guess that means this bad idea turned out to be one of the best ones I’ve had to date.
Yay me and my irresponsible decision-making skills.