Lions and tigers and bears!

The fabulous Valentine's Day plan may have worked a bit too well. After a lengthy evening of champagne and, for lack of a better phrase, intellectual conversation (isn't it nice of me to spare your delicate feelings) somehow general self-congratulation about how great we are together ended up in a conversation about moving in. Him and me. In one house. Together.

I don't remember how it happened (I have a terrible feeling it may have been my fault) and I can't really think about it because whenever the conversation resurfaces in my mind all I can hear is the blood pounding between my ears. Thunk. Thunk. Whoooosh.

I know I love him and I'm gradually coming around to the idea that he might just be the man for me, but somehow the idea of living with A Boy again sends me into a spiral of panic. It doesn't help that only the previous day I'd been reminiscing about the nightmare experience I'd had living with Another Boy a few years ago and the whole disaster was still fresh in my mind when the topic came up.

But let's be thankful for small mercies - at least the panic didn't hit til Boy du Jour had left this morning. Last night it was all "what colour shall we paint the spare room" and "can we have an apartment with a river view" and "where will we put all your [his] crap". It took a full twelve hours for the implications to sink in and now I'm actually a little breathless with adrenalin and it just won't stop.

Get a grip, woman. Not all men are the Evil Ex. You broke the six month barrier with Boy du Jour without breaking a sweat and he's put about 90% of your neuroses to rest without even noticing they were there. Saying you might want to live together in another six months isn't exactly a massive step. You can totally take this in your stride.

Oh god, I'm going to faint.