“You know what she’s doing… she’s nesting.”

Working in close proximity with a number of single guys at Gestalt, I’ve grown used to these types of comments. In fact, I now take pride in giving recently-engaged Ryan all sorts of shit about the wedding planning hell he has in front of him. But on this particular occasion, I think they may have been on to something.

Just under two months post-wedding, life has been much busier than I expected. As part of the wedding-that-will-never-die, the thank you notes have been taking up quite a bit of my time. Contrary to popular belief, it’s time consuming to have to think of and position myself to execute excuses as to why I can’t write any. Thankfully, the human anatomy has provided doubles of most vital organs, which has given me ample sacrifices in the name of avoiding the mind-numbing practice of thank you cards.

I’ve been put in charge of the thank you cards for the aforementioned single work guys. I prefer something more personal than thank you cards…

“Dude, thanks.”
“No problem.”

I’m also starting to notice some post-wedding differences around the house. I won’t try to hide the fact that the house was classified as a federal disaster area in the weeks preceding the wedding. So following the honeymoon, we took some time to rebuild our house into something livable. The majority of the gifts found somewhat permanent homes, the creatures growing in the den were eradicated, and we even found a temporary dwelling for Meg’s dress under the bed (which is now a solid three inches higher for having done so). And for the record, she hasn’t decided what she’s doing with it, so don’t even bother asking.

This was all well and good, and life continued. For a while, at least. But one day I began to notice other, more subtle, changes around the house. Closets were organized, which is to say my stuff was donated to charity and I have been exposed to the first wave of Meg’s shoe platoon. My medicine cabinet actually contains, surprisingly enough, various medications. I sat down at the computer in the den to discover that the monitor is in fact supported by a desk instead of loosely packed sheets of paper.

Meanwhile, I spilled a glass of water in the kitchen last week. After ten minutes of searching for a towel, I resolved myself to let it evaporate, thankful it had not been soda.

In other words, Meg is nesting. On one hand, it’s nice to live in a house with such an anal retentive organization scheme. On the other, this phenomenon, coupled with Melissa’s incessant “So when are you having kids”, is starting to worry me that things are in motion that I am both not aware of nor, more importantly, have any control over.