First of all, let’s get one thing straight. I live with the perfect guy. I do, it’s true. Not because he’s gonna read it (he doesn’t read everything I write, it’s called self-preservation) but he truly is perfect cause he always allows my drama to unfold before his eyes, enduring it stoically. So I will be writing this piece with sincerity and boldness like a champion.
Now, about you. If you have decided to move in with your partners, congratulations. I don’t mean it entirely ironically. It takes some balls cause we are talking about settling on some pretty basic stuff here. We’re talking about bowel movements, alcohol cravings, spontaneous crying and sudden existential crises. In other words, all things essential.
Also, the little things. Like you can’t go to bed without brushing your teeth cause they’ll think you’re disgusting. It takes a few months before you rebel against your perfect image and say to hell with it, I’m bored. Same as the first morning you don’t make your bed or you don’t do the dishes before they get home. If you’re there, well done you! You are finally yourself!
Chances are though, you still pretend on some things. Like you pretend you’ve always recycled glass. Paper is one thing, but glass takes extra commitment cause you need to wash it more thoroughly, it takes up space and it’s heavy to carry. Also, glass recycling bins don’t come as often. You’re thinking to yourself, isn’t paper enough? Paper saves trees, what does glass save? Where does it even come from? Seriously I have no clue.
Recycling has nothing on food though. Especially when you’re really hungry and you decide to make an omelette sandwich. Only now you have to ask them too if they want one, which of course they do cause who in their right mind says no to an omelette sandwich. So now you have to wait longer to eat, you make theirs first to show you care and also because you don’t want to have yours cold. Always start before you feel famished. That’s my advice.
We can beat around the bush for hours but by far the biggest problem in a cohabitation situation is the fart. The one you so desperately need to get out of you but can’t. I don’t know what level of intimacy you need to reach in order to let this one free but I haven’t reached it yet. I sometimes sneak a few short ones when he’s on the phone so clearly not listening for anything else around him (yes, I’m at the mastery level of control, I am able to customise the duration). When he snores I can slip a few staccatos in between his mezzo fortes. Farting is important to me obviously and we should talk about it more often and more openly.
What is also pretty hard, is if you are a natural born drama queen. As a sole apartment occupant, you opened a bottle of wine for yourself, put some heavy eyeliner on, wore a satin red robe with nothing underneath, some Edith Piaf in the background and walked around the rooms drinking and crying till you got thick smudgy black lines running down your cheeks at which point it was imperative to go stand by the window, stare at the pink evening sky and wonder whether your best days are behind you and if this is your best life. Now think of the above with your man in the house. I know, right? Ridiculous.
The other thing I realised lately is the bed myth. You are not sleeping in a double bed. No. A double bed is when you have double the size of a single bed all to yourself. You are in a single bed my dear and you haven’t realised. You’re 12 again. You feel tense and uncomfortable and you cannot put your leg on a 90-degree angle. Unless he gets up earlier than you in which case you get a few hours of stretching bliss say between 6-8am.(you can also fart during these hours) Other than that, the starfish sleeping days are O-V-E-R. Sorry.
I was thinking of forgetting about this article all together this morning when he came to bed to wake me up and then he turned the coffee machine on and left my favourite mug there for me to pour some …I felt guilty for trashing all that for a few farts and a stretch in bed. But it’s true, it’s all true, you just don’t care as much anymore, you enjoy it the days you can still have it like when he goes out (in the normal realm of things) or when he’s on a trip or something. The truth of the matter though is that there’s nothing like the arms you love around you when you share the couch for a movie. If only he could sometimes scoot over a few more inches and turn the volume up a bit so I can finally fart.