Barf

I'm picking up my belongings and moving them 650 miles south in eight days. I cast Josh in the role of 'muscular/automotive support' before he really knew what hit him. I still don't think he grasps the scope of his duties in this scenario, which prompted a conversation today about next weekend's schedule. When exactly will we be leaving? How is this whole packing/loading/moving thing going to happen? Where will we park a truck that large outside of my building? Will my car actually clear the tow ramp? Etc. etc. etc. He remained positive and chipper throughout the entire conversation - while I interjected a series of heavy sighs every few words. I was beginning to become seriously concerned about the strain that this scenario is capable of putting on our relationship.

Me: I don't think you understand how much stuff I have...I just see you getting really frustrated with me because of the whole thing.

Josh: I know. But I'm looking forward to it.

Me: (confused silence)

He proceeded to tell me how he's so looking forward to spending an entire day with just me and him in the van together, and how he's sure we'll probably get stressed at some point during the whole ordeal, but he bets it'll be really funny later because everything I do is 'cute'.

There are three parts of me that responded at that point. The first part coughed 'bullshit' under my breath and rolled my eyes at having landed in one of those romantic comedy relationships that I don't think exist on a real level. The second part melted into a puddle of helpless girlishness with heart-shaped cartoon eyes and reverted to my 13 year old self writing 'Stacie Haile' in curly cursive all over the pages of my Trapper Keeper. The third just gave a blank stare, thinking that he's completely out of his effing mind and only I would fine someone that crazy.

I'm not sure which one to go with at this point, but until things go south I'm all about the puddles.