It seemed so easy.
My boyfriend had practically moved into my teeny apartment months ago. His T-shirts and jeans had infiltrated my closet, and most of the leftover takeout in the fridge was his.
So when his landlord sold the house he was (sometimes) living in, we decided to find our own place. Something quaint and in a nice, quiet neighborhood with ample parking.
That romance didn’t last.
We quickly learned that “cute” meant “small,” and “includes utilities” meant “we’ll pay for your water but that’s it. Oh, and this unit doesn’t include a washer.”
So after seeing garages converted into one-bedrooms and studios tucked away in attics, we revised our minimum requirements to something a little more realistic: clean, safe, no crystal meth lab downstairs.
Still, we couldn’t find a single place we both agreed on. I liked the one-bedroom with a kitchenette and full-size tub. He liked the one with the yard, shed and tons of storage space. Never mind the stove was in the hallway right outside the bedroom.
But despite a temperamental rental market, finding a place wasn’t the hardest part.
It was the act of living together.
Sharing space was never my best quality. Sure, I can lend friends my hardcover books, expensive dresses, even my car. But I have issues with someone invading my space, changing the way I organize my things or, worse yet, telling me how to do what I’ve been doing for the last 29 years.
How more than 2 million unmarried couples live together in the U.S., I’ll never know.
Moving in together had become the ultimate test of devotion and commitment for me. I’ve already tolerated his leaving the milk out. But how much more could I take?
One of my co-habiting girlfriends told me to write up a list of rules–guidelines, she tells me to call them–regulating how things are done in the house. “You may be splitting the rent,” she says smoothly. “But you’re the one who’ll wind up cleaning the toilets every Saturday. And, really, for what they do in that bathroom, that should be the man’s job.”
It sounded like a reasonable solution: come up with house rules, discuss them, make some minor changes and post them on the bedroom wall. It was so adult.
But the plan didn’t go as planned.
“What is this one here?” my boyfriend asked, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, ‘Use things for what they were meant.’ I don’t get it.”
Towel racks are for towels, not newspapers. Potholders are for pots, not padding for tool boxes. I thought this was simple enough.
“How about this,” he said, tossing my well-written “guidelines” to the side. “Everything will be split, down the middle. You know, you cook, I do the dishes. You wash clothes, I’ll fold.”
He looked at me like he had just discovered solar energy.
“So …” I began, “if I shop, you pay?”
We spent the next few days avoiding the topic. But his habits that I once found bearable, almost endearing, were now as irritating as pantyhose on a hot summer day.
He hung wet towels on lamps, flung his boxers on the nearest appliance, collected McDonald’s wrappers like baseball cards.
I wanted to scream. So I called Mom.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I whined to her. “I don’t think I’m made for this.”
My mom laughed. “You think the rest of us didn’t have a hard time? You’ve lived with Dad for 20 years! Look what I had to put up with!”
She had a point.
My boyfriend may not understand what “like colors” means, but at least he washes the clothes. He may not understand the concept of a shower caddy, but he doesn’t use dishwashing soap for shampoo anymore. It’s a work-in-progress, but at least it’s working.
And I’m sure getting a two-bedroom helped.
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ritaredeye@tribune.com
