I had thought that moving out of my mom’s house would be the biggest step I made this fiscal year. Little did I know that a short eight months later, I’d be a statistic in next year’s State of Our Unions.

After more than a year of dating long distance and a more-recent push to sh*t or get off the pot (except in a more romantical sort of way), The Boyfriend is making the move to Houston. (He’s been based in Kansas City, Mo., since we both graduated from the University of Missouri, where we also dated.)

It’s hugely huge news, but even more hugemongous is our subsequent plan to shack up once my lease is up in February.

It makes a mess of sense. We're going to spend most of our time together, anyway, and we figure we might as well bound while we're making leaps. But I have to admit, I have some first-time cohabitation anxieties:

There will be NO privacy — Omigod, ya’ll — he's going to find out that I poop.

He’s going to get bored — Going to bed with the same thing every night, seeing the same thing when he wakes up in the morning . . . what if he wants to change my bedding??

We lose the mystery — Only acceptable if we find my g-spot.

The place looks like a frat house — I can't get ready every day staring at a poster of Marisa Miller; it's just a mood killer. I don't like The Godfather, Scarface, or any of the Rockys. Also I have serious reservations about that high school hockey jersey.

How do you pay for things? — Does he pay for them? Or do you open a joint account that he funds? It's all so confusing.

We turn into “that” couple — I’m in-demand enough as a solo artist; as a duo it’s going to get dicey. We can only go on so many couple's vacays and host so many afterbars, people. We can’t be everywhere at once.

Despite a few apprehensions, I’ve got no doubt that living in sin is the right thing to do.

In (momentary lapse of) seriousness though, I just know that if I let this relationship fall victim to circumstance I'll never, ever not think about it, no matter where I end up — or who with. I'm definitely scurred; are our parents going to stop having us to dinner? Am I still Episcopalian?

There’s only one way to find out.