Mostly because I’m zero-to-sixty once given the green light on anything (hence the unfortunate ‘Leadfoot Lindsay’ nickname), I tend to jump into multiple projects at once – whether or not the timing is right. My brain also works this way: overwhelmingly obsessed or utterly uninterested.

Also, since I seem to get a kick out of what anxiety does for me in the way of mental stress and unhealthy eating habits, in between trying to plan the perfect bridal shower and preparing for endurance season I threw moving into the mix (Petyr Baelish’s words are true, my friends – chaos IS a ladder). I moved in with B, and once word was out that I had flown the coop all of my friends in serious relationships felt the need to share their anecdotal experiences when living with their significant other. But not to talk me out of it – just so I’m “prepared”. I struggled between the desire to proclaim (a la Disney Princess style, of course) that those things would never happen! We are perfect! And the urge to just say fuck it before B and I end up as one of the couples fighting about the toilet paper or some other terribly boring and asinine detail of cohabitation.

Despite the passive aggressive warnings veiled as concerns, B and I are doing disgustingly well. Getting used to having neighbors is another issue entirely, but I’m learning.



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