It’s 9:20 PM on a Sunday. I’m sitting on a large throw pillow on the floor at the foot of my bed. There’s a matching cushion beside me peeking out from a navy blue fleece blanket covered in images of ramen bowls and Chinese takeout containers. TJ Maxx, $17.99. One of his Christmas gifts. He loves Asian food, and consequently loves that blanket.
He’s over at the oven baking naan to eat with hummus, singing, “I love my girrrrrlfriend!” repeatedly, presumably because he just had drinks with friends and knows I’m a little irritable. He prances over and plops beside me, aggressively kisses my face, and makes strange noises while browsing various streaming services. We settle on season 2 of Crashing.
It’s close quarters around here. I live in a small studio that barely accommodates one, let alone two. The only real division of space is the bathroom, and there isn’t even room for an additional sock to join my bursting drawers and closet. But we’ve made it work since July when he came over and decided it was chill to stay for the rest of eternity.
You don’t expect much to transpire from a birthday card mailed to your ex after seven months of silence. At least I didn’t. All I knew was the idea of him not feeling special on his birthday eroded the wall I built between us, and before I knew it, I was busting out the colored pencils to craft my love note. I had a delicate balance to strike: keep it vaguely impersonal so I don’t look like I miss him, but infuse notes of Baby Come Back so he picks up the phone. My scroll was well-received, and a couple months of sporadic “hey, this reminded me of you” texts paved a path directly to my apartment where he has yet to leave. He even has keys and half a drawer.
Spontaneous cohabitation with someone you never expected to see again has been interesting. I’d never lived with a boyfriend before, and it was like speeding past the “slow down” road signs and crashing into the altar. Aside from work and exercise, we effectively spend every waking moment together. The personal space I’ve forgone is not limited to my home; I forget what it’s like not be touched. Gianluca (pronounced John-Luca) requires the highest level of physical affection. I thought I did, too, until I realized I can’t work on my blog 10 feet from the bed where he lays without grumbled “I miss you”s every few minutes. “How the fuck can you miss me?” I secretly ponder, letting out a contrived, “awwww.” Truthfully, it’s hard to miss someone when they’re not only in the same room as you 24/7, but also constantly contorting their 6’1 body to fit in your 5’4 lap, or shoving their hand in your coat pocket to hold hands in cold weather when you refuse to take yours out. Can you tell I’m going a bit nuts? Just kidding… sort of.
Living with my boyfriend has exposed personal uglies that I thought I could get away with hiding another few years. The shower curtain can’t veil my Jackson Pollock bathtub of splattered soap scum and mildew when I now have a permanent guest. I don’t wash the sheets or towels nearly as often as I should, and then I complain that his face “smells like a dirty dish rag” after drying off with said (neglected) towels. I spend way too much time on my phone, and then I spiral and cry when I can’t focus to get things done. I come home with a bag full of new clothes, and then I have an empty fridge for the next two weeks. All of my shameful idiosyncrasies have an audience now, and this performance is far from Oscar-worthy.
There’s much to consider before sharing a small space with your partner. I’ve learned some lessons the hard way and would be honored to save you the stress:
- Have a good bluetooth speaker. Take it in the bathroom when you poop. I can assure you no running faucet will adequately drown out the sounds. And if you’re not quite there yet with your significant other, you will be soon.
- Parks and Rec is the kryptonite of all arguments. When you find yourselves breathless over unresolved issues and insecurities that just won’t die no matter how often you meditate or repeat affirmations in the mirror, Andy Dwyer swoops in and does his best Burt Macklin. Alas, you share deep belly laughter and pour two glasses of merlot. La vie est belle.
- Masturbation is natural and normal. You may wake up ready to go only to be told he just finished in the shower. Don’t take it personally; just remember to send him the hospital bills for your impending carpal tunnel.
- Take time to do you. Cook healthily. Read books. Create art. Paint your nails. Clean. Garden. Write Gossip Girl Fan Fiction on Chuck Bass’ secret cross-dressing fetish. Carefully devise your patriarchy take-down. Run for office to initiate said take-down. Build a homemade bomb. Acquire a side piece. The world is your oyster, but you’ll never know if your life is solely built around hangin with bae just because he/she lives with you.
- Get a good couples therapist.
Right now he’s blasting stand up comedy from his laptop, cackling into oblivion despite the many times I’ve told him I can’t write with noise. But you know what? I’m not going to say anything, because he’s had a hard week and I want to hear him laugh. Even my contentious ass can take one for the team.
As humans, we have this innate need to know what’s next. If you boil down our most precise fears, they almost all stem from a loss of control. But sometimes you just have embrace the uncertainty of cannon-balling into life with someone. Accept that you could get hurt, and you can’t control that, but doing the thing with the person is the route of greatest joy. Make peace with your past, cha-cha into your future. All it takes is a homemade birthday card and a new set of keys.