Now that I am gainfully employed and living with the boyfriend, I think that I may be, offically, a grown-up. Of course, perhaps this is all just an extended game of pretend that I started when I was five years old. I still wear my "dress-up shoes", only now they actually fit, and sometimes when I go to the bank, no real money comes out, just like with my old Playskool cash register. Now, of course, the reason is that I'm overdrawn and not that the coins are made of red plastic. I don't generally get naked and cover myself in Crayola marker anymore, but, really, it's only a matter of time.
Moving in with Jeff has been amazingly un-traumatic so far, at least for me. For him, I fear, it's been less smooth, since he is the calmer, more practical, less dramatic half of our new domestic partnership, and I am the hysterical, unreasonable, prone-to-histrionics half. I have been known to break down in tears when a shower curtain rod falls, or to become so angry at a pan stuck in the dishwasher that, upon wrestling it free, I hurl it at the floor. I think I've been well-behaved so far, and Jeff has admirably tolerated the sea of cosmetics and shoes that has invaded his small bedroom.
Jeff is an up-and-coming photographer, and has quite a collection of cameras, which means that most every moment of our newly domesticated life is documented in some way. At weddings and parties we tend to behave, but get us alone, after a few too many beers (or girlie Smirnoff Ices for me), on a hot summer night, and suddenly we are deep into a photo essay that can best be described as "Move your head really fast and take a picture before you throw up". This, my friends, is true domestic bliss.