NEWS FLASH: James Dean and I are moving in together.

I am excited about picking out an epic set of white linens, deciding on the exact placement of his gaudy orange espresso machine, and knowing that we will introduce more and more co-creation into our relationship as co-habiters.

But I’m scared, too…

A year ago, I was a duck farmer, duck organizer, duck evaluator, duck liner upper. And I employed my duck savvy with M—we had been together for four years when we moved in together. I knew his family intimately. He knew mine. (For the most part) We all got along. I knew his morning routine, how he reacts under pressure, during holidays, drunk. And it was all okay… okay enough. I don’t have all this “evidence” when it comes to James… in many ways he is still a mystery to me.

I can hear the pundits chanting… too soon… what if… have you ever… Most of these mantras have taken their turn intermittently screaming between my ears.  And do you know what I say back? Yeah? What if? I have never. Soon enough.

In spite of my intellectual fears, I made this decision from my place of knowing, my place of truth. Knowing not that I will succeed, because I don’t. Knowing not if we will last, because I don’t. Knowing not if James Dean will disappointment me or worse, if I will disappoint him. I know not the ways of the universe—meant to be/not, whatever. I simply know what is true for me in this moment. And that truth is: Living with James Dean is right for me, right now.

End of conversation.