One month ago, I broke my ankle. It was a sort of freak accident – a simple fall on the stairs (being the klutz that I am, that part wasn’t unusual), but one that resulted in a fracture. I was at a bar, and after it happened, I went straight to my boyfriend’s place. He met my cab at the corner, and he’s barely left my side since then.
Navigating New York City on crutches is no easy feat, nor is going about the simplest everyday tasks with a broken bone and a painkiller-clouded brain. So, once I injured myself, my boyfriend started sleeping at my apartment every night. He helped me with meals, propped my foot up, and provided all-around company while I was incapacitated.
Now that the fracture is healing and I need less maintenance, we’re slowly getting back to our pre-anklegate routine: three to five sleepovers and a handful of shared dinners a week. And I’m sad about it. The kicker? He lives across the street from me. I could run to his place, give him a kiss and run back in the span of five minutes if I wanted to. It’s not that I’m dependent on him, or that I don’t like my roommates, but I’ve gotten used to Andy’s regular presence – kissing him goodbye when he leaves for work in the morning, hanging out and playing some pre-dinner Mario Kart with him at night; it just felt so natural and easy.
So, we should move in together, right? It’s not like it hasn’t crossed my mind. After nearly two-and-half years together, if friends aren’t pestering us about marriage, they’re asking us about living together. And they aren’t the only ones. He recently told me he wants to make the move when our leases are up—it’s the logical next step, he says. Keep reading »