10 Shocking Discoveries Of Moving Out

Whenever you decide to do it, moving out of home is a shock to the system.

Discovering that the complaints your parents have made your entire life about household chores are in fact completely viable is a pretty horrifying experience.

I seem to be finding more ways every day as to why being a grown-up might be a liiittle more tricky than anticipated; but here are ten of the main shockers when it comes to moving out of home into a world of your own:

10 Shocking Discoveries Of Moving Out

  1. Life becomes an endless repeat of wiping down the kitchen sides. Like, ALL THE TIME. Even when you make a cup of tea and the teabag does a little drip from cup to bin and you think you might just leave it cos’ it’s only a little one? Nope. Now you have to wipe it because if you don’t, it’ll just stay there. Probs until the end of time.
  2. You spend a heartbreaking amount of money on food only to discover three days later that it’s all magically disappeared. (Please don’t make me go food shopping againnnn.)
  3. The bathroom gets filthy real quick. And if you don’t clean it, it just gets worse. No magic bathroom cleaning fairies in this house.
  4. You run out of clean pants very fast. And they don’t just turn up clean on your bed anymore. In fact, when you need them, they’re still in the last place you saw them – in the laundry basket being all not clean.
  5. The dishwasher is so needy. It always needs something putting in or taking out. (That’s what she said.)
  6. Note to self: the pots do not jump from dishwasher to cupboards by themselves. Who knew?
  7. You have to remember to change your bed sheets all on your own. No reminders, no prompts, no ‘I cleaned your sheets for you’ surprises. It’s just you and your own brain. Forever.
  8. You develop a serious obsession with turning off every light that hasn’t been used for the last 3.3 seconds.
  9. If you get hungry, you and you alone are going to have to do something about that. And you haven’t wanted to face a food shop this week and you’re pretty sure you’ve cooked every meal ever invented in the entire world and When. Will. This. End?
  10. Some hoovers operate with hoover bags. And you have to spend actual money on said hoover bags. (You mean to tell me that some part of my life has been spent on earning money to purchase bags which are merely used to hold dust before being thrown into the bin? Kill me. Kill me now.)

I can almost hear my Mum squealing with delight as she reads about my realisations.

Yes Mother, it appears you were right all along: I did treat that place like a hotel. Now how do I make a reservation?

*

What have been the most shocking discoveries of moving out for you? How do you fit all this stuff in? What’s the typical recovery period from the shock? (You do recover right? Please tell me you recover?!)

OMG

A lady never tells but a man should NEVER ask.

oh no you didn'tTHE WORST HAS HAPPENED.

OK, so it’s not the ACTUAL worst in terms of serious life stuff. But it wouldn’t sound quite so catchy if I’d started with ‘the two hundredth worst thing has happened!’

But in girl terms, it truly is the worst, with second place going to when you’re feeling smug in the pub as you catch a table of men staring at you only to have one of them tell you that you have your skirt tucked into your knickers, third place going to falling flat on your face in a busy shopping centre while on your own and fourth place being snapped up by when you sneeze and a little trump pops out and someone notices. (Not that that ever happens, obviously.)

And the winner is…

A man asked me if I was pregnant.

And I am not.

Yep, he broke the number one most important rule of interaction between men and women – never ask a woman if she’s pregnant just in case she’s not.

Which I am not.

I glared at him in horror then checked down at my stomach. I was aware that I’d put on a little travelling weight over the months, but I didn’t realise it was enough for someone to assume I had a small human growing inside of me.

“No I’m not!” I replied hastily, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry. (Naturally I opted for the latter.)

“I’m so sorry,” his eyes grew wide as he realised he’d offended me.

And weirder still, he continued:

“I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just, I’ve been watching you (SORRY, WHAT NOW?!) and I noticed that you always have your hand on your stomach.”

So now I was a fatty with a stalker.

Once the man had finished apologising profusely, and I’d given him a heads up never to ask a woman that ever again, I decided to put it down to being a big offensive misunderstanding. I mean, it was that or crying myself into an oblivion of starvation, and I was really looking forward to whole load of ice cream.

But it did get me asking a lotta questions. And a lotta questions about the questions it got me asking.

Like, what business was it of his to ask? What difference would it have made to him even if my answer had been yes? Why had a stranger recognised the way I hold myself? What if I’m one of those people that thinks they’re really thin when in reality they’re absolutely not?

He’d asked me one single question to which had left me questioning my weight, my posture, my image, his social skills, why his mother hadn’t advised him of things never to say, of how my reaction reflected my personal body insecurities, of any time it’s ever OK to tell someone you’ve been watching them, on whether he was weird, or perhaps I was weird, or maybe we were just from two completely different worlds.

Just three little words caused all of these thoughts and feelings to shoot through me. These words were so innocently uttered but so powerful and affecting and irretrievable.

This man was never to know what thoughts his innocent question would provoke in my mind, and if he did he’d probably be shocked and apologise, again.

In a life where “I love you” can mean so much, that “I’m sorry” can bring such relief, that “I’ll miss you” can be so warming and that “I hate you” can hurt like hell, our words should always be spoken carefully, and made certain that they are fully meant before they leave our dangerous lips.

But, if there’s one thing that should never pass, whether you’ve thought about it carefully or not, and that’s to ask a woman if she’s pregnant, just in case she isn’t.

Which, to confirm, I am not.

On living together: the good, the bad and the ugly.

I have to live with a boy!

“We really need to get out of this habit of just throwing things on the floor,” he said, picking up a pair of my carelessly strewn pyjama bottoms.

Oh dear. And so it begins.

Now, I may have flown across the world to experience my first time living with a boy, and living with another couple too makes it all feel a lot less grown up. But nevertheless, the same rules apply to the latest new experience of my twenties.

Weekly eagerly anticipated date nights are now, like, just every evening at the dinner table.

When we can afford date night out (apparently paying rent can put a little dent in the weekly dinner, cinema, drinks, clubbing fund) it’s usually a good chance to have a conversation about serious stuff, like money, or bills, or business plans or the future.

And when you just wanna let it all hang out? Well, you’ve just gotta do what a girls gotta do and hope for the best that you’ll still be loved through every single surprise revelation that you might not be quite as glamorous all the time as you might have been three times a week for evening dates and weekend sleepovers.

On living together: the good, the bad and the ugly.

The good:

  • Before the day has even really started, you get to see a face you love, and that’s EVERY DAY!
  • You have someone to tell about your night full of crazy dreams without a) judgement, and b) the risk of being labelled as the office ‘most boring storyteller ever’.
  • You get to have a sleepover with your best friend every night!
  • There’s always someone there to listen to stories about your day.
  • There’s always someone there to complain to.
  • If you need a cuddle, you’ve got it. And if you really really don’t, that’s generally always fine too.
  • You share everything – secrets, in-jokes, tea-making, mutual hatred for the loud clattering of the postman, mutual love for watching hours of your current TV addiction.
  • There’s always someone to tell you that you look nice. With the correct prompting, obviously. (I.e. ‘Do I look nice? Insert wisest answer here [____]’)
  • If you forget to buy deodorant, there’s always back up.

The bad:

  • With mornings can come grumpy grunts and frowns, and that’s before the day has even started.
  • Someone might begin to realise how much you enjoy keeping your stuff where you can see it (i.e. all over the floor, desk, chair, bedside table etc..)
  • Someone might often complain about the above point by shouting ‘shit on the floor again!’ to which, any guests unaware of the context, are likely to presume that, (unless you have a dog, which we do not) you might have actually done a shit on the floor, again. And that’s never good.
  • Someone else’s hair joins yours around the sink.
  • You have to clean the bathroom that another human being has used.
  • Boys are smelly – will they ALWAYS think farts are hilarious?
  • You end up HAVING to share stuff (that incredibly expensive colour restore shampoo has been wasted wash after wash on a man that has never coloured his hair, nor has any desire in restoring it.)

The ugly:

Fights. Silly little bickery ‘can we just stop and listen to ourselves?!’ fights about mess and washing and cleaning and doing dishes and mattress toppers and early morning alarms that NEVER STOP and lights being left on and eating all the food shop on delivery day and who used the last of the milk and where did all the biscuits go and all the other things you’ve been fighting with your parents about for years, only to now realise, this shit never ends!

Like, ever.

But when it comes down to it, even through all the brand new grown up stuff that I never once dreamt I’d ever have to deal with, well it’s really very nice, this living together thing.

Snatched kisses in the kitchen, the LAUGHS that bubble out post-fight when we realise we’re arguing over whether to buy a fitted or a flat sheet, always thinking about someone else and knowing that they’re always thinking about you (sure, apart from when the football’s on, or being discussed, or being played, or being mentioned, or just existing), the sharing of the smallest most boring things like taking in the shopping or preparing a meal or doing the dishes feeling like you’re part of a mini team as you tackle this new grown up world together.

Those giggles, and that getting each other, and the comfort, and the listening and the believing in each other’s goals and plans and dreams. It all wins. The good stuff wins!

But the farts really do have to stop.

stop the fartsYou’re battling the twenties too, huh? The best way to win is to face it together! Get in touch: littleredfrench@gmail.com

Or leave me a comment below