Moving Out

In the next couple of weeks, all going well, I’ll be moving from my Dad’s flat to an actual house with a landlord and flatmates and bills. This means paying proper rent and living with people I’m not related to, two things I’ve yet to do, like, ever (shut up, I am only 21…).

Obviously I’m excited. It’ll be the first time in my life I won’t be living with a parent. That’s got to be exciting, right? But my overwhelming emotion is anxiety. What if I’m not cut out for living with other people? What if my clean-freakishness takes over and I scare everyone with incessant polishing? What if I hog the bathroom? What if I’m taken over by the urge to fritter away my rent money on shoes and pastry? And so on. I also have an extreme attachment to my current area, despite it being a bit rough around the edges (and one of the worst three roads in Britain apparently).

But deep down I know I haven’t a good reason to be worried. My rent is more than affordable, I vaguely know the area where I’ll be living and my future housemates are lovely. I also get to live with another Domestic Slut, so I’m assuming there will be Shared Wardrobe Privileges and brownies. And we’ll have a house warming party. And a SodaStream!

So why do I have the horrible feeling that once I’ve moved in and unpacked my things, I’ll burst into tears?


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