#43: Wash, Rinse, Repeat

I have the forms; they’re right in front of me. All I have to do is sign. I’ve already told them that Sir and I have made up our minds. Two signatures are all it will take – far, far fewer than it took for us to become man and wife. I don’t even have to know what county my mother was born in for these documents.

This is a good thing. Right? A good opportunity, the right decision for my family, perfect timing, best for us and them – everyone wins. Then why do I feel like I’m going to throw up every time I look at the forms? Maybe I am catching the stomach bug that is going around the office. The one that everyone swore they were over before they came back to work and celebrated my birthday by touching the candles that went into the cake they bought me. Crap.

We evaluated all of our options; we thought about it; we explored; we thought some more. We’ve even considered how this will affect the dog, we have so thoroughly explored the consequences of this decision. Not that Oakley isn’t a member of our family who deserves consideration, but seriously, the dog. I’m sick of thinking about it. Of course once I sign these forms, I’ll be IN it for… well, the foreseeable future. I guess I won’t be able to avoid thinking about it then. I feel sick, I feel sick, I feel sick.

I worry. Those two words describe me pretty aptly. At any given time I am worrying about at least a dozen different things – that deadline, this document, what are we going to have for dinner, do we have food in the fridge, is that shirt ironed, is Sir ok, does Oakley have to pee, did I leave the burner on, did I lock the door, etc. In the middle of a conversation, Sir will catch me gazing somewhere over his left shoulder with knitted brow and slack jaw and ask what’s wrong. Instead of giving him a grocery list of worries that have just occurred to me right then, I usually apologize and say, “Nothing.” (Now you know.) But at this specific moment, I will tell you that I am worrying about the path we have chosen not to follow. Would we be happier if I didn’t sign these papers? In six months will we look back and miss how we are right now? Will things be hard? Will things go as planned? Ultimately, Sir and I agree, this is the best thing for us. It is. But God, I don’t want to do something that will eventually… I don’t know. Suck, I guess.

Everyone seemed pleased when I told them. That’s a good thing. Of course I have other people yet to tell who maybe won’t be so thrilled. Or maybe they will be and I just worry they won’t. It’s hard for me to tell the difference sometimes; I am so inclined to automatically think the worst. The group that we’ve told has been so supportive and wonderful that it really cemented the decision for us. Well, until I saw the forms anyway. Seeing it in writing just sets a certain finality to things. The documents promise that everything will be different by X date. And that’s that.

But we’ve done this before. It was terribly difficult, especially for me, but this time it will be so much easier in so, so many ways. I have to keep reminding myself that we’ve made the decision already. After months and months of discussion (that went on and on and on and on, good grief get me some wine), we have made our decision. It is the right one, I know it.

Ok, here I go. Deep breath and remember to sign with your new last name (you’d think after six months I’d have that down). This is a good thing. Don’t barf, don’t barf, don’t barf.

Now it’s official. We’re moving to Atlanta.

(hurl)

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