Disconcerting.

I signed the lease on my house today, and paid my first month and my damage deposit. I have my keys and I know how to get there on my own. (When I was viewing it initially, and when I returned to meet the landlords, I engaged my aunt to be my chaperone. Again, I'm an 18 year old girl. I have a brain. I use that brain to keep myself safe and to know when I'm doing things that are way out of my depth, like apartment hunting and discussing rental agreements.)

The current tenant and I discussed, at great length, what my move-in date would be "officially". We eventually came to the agreement that the day I signed the papers would be my "official" move-in date, and I would be a legal tenant from that date. The landlords agreed, so . . . today was that day.

I'm not living in the same city, or region, as my parents or a majority of my belongings, so next weekend, my parents will be bringing me my own bed from home, along with a few other basic necessities of life (like what I had to leave behind when I moved into my dormitory.)

It's amazing what can accrue over eight months of residence in a place.

I have more clothes than when I moved in. I have more shoes. I have a large box dedicated to notebooks alone. I have triple the amount of books I once had, and that's not including my textbooks. I have a printer, a fridge, a laptop and a television. My collection of movies has quadrupled, as has my assortment of towels and face cloths.

And now they're all in boxes and suitcases, ready to be shifted from my dormitory to my new house. And it is a house . . . a house shared between myself and one other girl, very close to my workplace and a shopping centre, and far enough away from a main road that it is a relatively quiet and safe neighborhood.

I have a ninja plan with my in-town relatives to move all of my stuff over long before my parents arrive, so we can just spend the weekend hanging out and having fun and being a family and adjusting to the fact that I WILL NOT be moving back home to the Back-Assward Corner of Nowhere and Nothing. (That last one is more for my parents than me . . .)

It is disconcerting, to say the least, to be moving into your own place for the first time. I'm not entirely sure if I'll be able to last. Working full-time, paying rent, saving up money for what I want . . .

Oh my Gods . . .

I've got to be an adult now.

I thought I could put that off for a little longer, but . . .

At least I'll have my own place to put Ninja Coffee Cup, instead of a little tiny room with a bunch of other rooms with people in them around it.


Wish me luck. I've finished packing my books and stuff, and now I'm working on my clothing . . . Anybody have any tips or tricks for getting over the anxiety of seeing your life reduced to boxes and suitcases?



Peace,
Emily Grace