Shacking up...

Again, responding to a prompt by www.helium.com - on living with a significant other... the names were changed to protect the innocent...

Any relationship that doesn’t end in marriage, ends in break up (actually, many of the marriages end that way, too) and it is ever-so-much-more-fun to move in together than to move out apart. These are the cautionary statements I provide any friend considering co-habitation.

Living together makes economic sense for many couples – save on rent, save on bills, save on shuttling back and forth between each other’s places. But this is not a step to be taken lightly.

I should have known the first time I went to Mark’s apartment that it was never going to work. The coffee table’s legs trembled under the weight of his mail and the arms and legs of various articles of clothing hung at disturbing angles out from under seat cushions. In the kitchen, there was some reminder of every meal ever eaten. All these not-too-subtle clues should have warned me that no matter what our attraction, the fundamentals of sharing a space could be problematic.

Of course I ignored the signs; after all, I was twenty-two and certainly knew enough about what I wanted from life to dive right in and marry the guy. At the time I often said that if we had been next door neighbors, our marriage might have worked out – though there was only a touch of truth to that. The problem was that he wanted to live his life exactly as it was – just adding me to it. He was never terribly concerned about what would make me happy or how his habits might be unpleasant for others – he was a real “take me as I am” type.

It could be said that our marriage ended because he wouldn’t clean up after himself. After five years of watching him throw dirty tissues near, but not in the garbage; of cleaning up the egg yolk from the counter, of sorting through his paperwork and desperately trying to find places to put it all, of picking up his pants from the front door where he left them and his underwear from the couch (don’t ask), I finally put it to him bluntly.

Though our problems went well beyond this, I boiled it down to an ultimatum – show me you love me by cleaning up the house. He said he didn’t know how to clean the way I wanted it clean. And that, as they say, was that.

So there I was, on Christmas Eve, sorting through CDs and tree ornaments, trying to figure out who gets what and what belonged to whom. I can tell you, if you want to add to the pain of a breakup, pile on the sorting of belongings. Nothing says we’re through like giving up your favorite blanket because his grandmother knitted it.

Five years later, I’ve just moved in with my boyfriend. It’s not that there aren’t any strains, but we both want to make life better for the each other. He bends to my x-chromosome neurosis about the toilet seat; I submit to his English need to close the curtains at sundown. Over the years, it really does come down to the little things.

The bottom line is that some people make great lovers, some people make great roommates, but it’s the rare significant other who is both. Know yourself – what your can live with and what doesn’t matter. And understand that traits can be tempered, but rarely changed; it’s futile to try. Some issues may be solved by hiring a maid, but more often than not, if it bothers you when you’re dating, it will only get worse when you’re living together.

And though you might be spending every waking and every sleeping moment with the light of your life, it is always nice to have a safe harbor to which to return in the event of a storm. There’s nothing wrong with living together, for all intents and purposes, but until all doubt about whether you’re in for the long haul has been erased, it’s definitely best to have a room of one’s own.