Last week, we finished moving into the new house. It’s been ten months since we first put our apartment on the market, and an offer in on the house. Ten stressful months that we didn’t realize were a blessing, because they made it easier to say goodbye to our apartment.

I am a horribly nostalgic person, and once I knew for sure our time in the apartment was about to end, I took pictures. We’re only moving three blocks away, but I’m going to pass our old place every day on my walk to work, and I wanted to have a bank of photos so I could remember it how it was. Messy and ours. So I can look at them and think, there is where we watched the monument lighting, and there is where two of our friends jitterbugged into the coffee table and broke it, and there is where we’d blow up the air mattress and eat crappy food and watch West Wing when we were feeling lazy, and there is where our cat foamed at the mouth because he ate our Peace Lillies, and there is where Rob proposed, and there and there and there.

I’m excited to move into our new house. This has been a crazy year of change and it will be lovely to just sit, and look around and take inventory. I’m excited to decorate and move furniture and paint walls. I’m excited to stop breathing in dust from the construction downstairs, I’m excited that my lifelong friend and her boy friend are going to live with us for a bit, and I’m excited for our orange cat to get over herself and move out from under the covers in our bed. She hates moving, but YOLO, Gina.

We’ll be in the new place for a long, long time, so I won’t have to wax poetic about it anytime soon. Just needed to get my thoughts out about the old house, because now it is. Old. And not ours anymore.