Sure, I don't think that married couples need to live together, let alone in the same country (except, you know, by law. . .I think.) Sure, the idea of marriage makes my chest feel tight. And sure, I tend to test the guys that I'm dating, just to make sure they want to stick around. (Most recently, I believe this is what has earned me the endearing nickname "Jerkface.") But I have never been one to hold back from enjoying a person in every capacity for simply who they are--and I've never held myself back from daydreaming about that enjoyment being a lifelong thing. (Execution, on the other hand, will never be anything more than a daydream.)
But after nearly five years of living in Toronto, it's only now clear to me what a commitment-phobe I truly am. Natty's moving out at the end of the week, taking most of her belongings with her. Since I work in an office where I essentially get paid in high-fives and the occassional thumbs-up, my co-workers have been eager to help me out in these financially-trying times. "Let us know what you already have, and we'll see what we can give you."
That's just it, though, I explained to them. I don't own anything. After nearly five years of living in Toronto, I don't even have a fork to call my own.
So when I returned to Toronto after Christmas holidays, I made the ultimate commitment--in the form of a turntable. Because really, what says commitment more than a vinyl collection? (Although, I have to admit, three weeks later, the "collection" stands at four records that were donated to me by the office intern. I haven't been able to bring myself to actually buy anything yet.)
So Toronto, for now, I'm committing to you. I'm committing to my job, I'm committing to my apartment, to my friends, and maybe even to my relationship.