Photo by margolove on Flickr

As I mentioned in my last column, I’ve recently moved to a new apartment with my boyfriend. Aside from the major change of being in the suburbs, my life has been drastically altered by my contraction of ‘Nesting Syndrome.’ This acquired affliction has been presenting itself for the past few weeks, and only shows signs of intensifying. I think that I’ve either contracted it from or passed it to my boyfriend, because he is also exhibiting symptoms.

The first sign that I was coming down with this illness was sudden onset addiction to HGTV. Except for brief interludes of Family Guy and the occasional movie, our television has been constantly set to the network devoted to spreading ideas about decoration, innovation, and organization for homes. So from watching episodes of House Hunters to Color Splash and Design on a Dime, my mind has been filled with awesome (expensive) ideas for making home home.

Another clue indicating that I have the Syndrome is a craving for exotic food – Swedish Meatballs (and Lingonberry Jelly). Luckily, our new apartment is only a few exits away from that bright blue and yellow furniture marketer on the Beltway. And while it’s unfortunate that the College Park Ikea is being renovated, there has still been quite a large selection of furniture and other assorted accouterments for the new pad.

So from painting to shopping all over town for just the right things, the last few weeks have been marked with smoking credit cards and sore muscles. But the new place is starting to come together. We’ve painted and assembled, packed and unpacked, cleaned and sorted, and slowly a house is becoming a home.

But I wonder if we hold ourselves to a higher standard. We are gay after all. We have to have an apartment that reflects well upon us. And so our color coordinating senses have been working overtime. There’s plenty of work left, from frames to pillows, we have yet to complete our space.

And I fear that until we’ve found the look for which we are searching, my Nesting Syndrome will only get worse. Why is it that us fruits feel such a compulsion to spend hours in that labyrinth of a Swedish furniture warehouse or driving from store to store looking for place mats that are just so? I suppose that’s a question to which we may never know the answer. But on the happy side, if we spend too much time at Ikea walking off our meatballs, they have some tasty cinnamon buns.