Self-preservation

The boy and I spent a lovely two weeks galavanting all over Europe this summer (yes, I'm horribly spoiled. Consider me appropriately guilt-ridden). Part of that time was spent with our mothers, who, predictably, directly and indirectly tried to figure out our 'intentions.' Which, one night, landed the two of us in a conversation about the future. I, wisely (maybe I'm not always humble) suggested that we should have such talks because we wanted to, not because our mothers pressured us into them. But the net result was that we figured we'll probably be about ready to move in together around the time my lease is up next spring. Since then, we've both fallen into the habit of referencing that as if it's a foregone conclusion - well, when we live together we should...well, next spring we should...don't get me wrong, we're in a good place, and it makes sense that we're making such plans. But my self-preservation gene keeps piping up to say, well, if...don't get your hopes up!...maybe...

After three decades (ok, realistically, only a little over a decade of actual dating) my inclination toward self-preservation is quite finely honed. I'm going to have some work to do over the next several months (years? forever?) quieting it down so I can see a good thing staring me in the face. And this is a good thing.