My girlfriend and I moved in together six months ago, and as to be expected, it’s taken some time to get used to each other’s idiosyncrasies – doing the laundry, putting away dishes, and so on. For instance, Melissa sorts our clean towels according to size. I, on the other hand, prefer to separate by use, because… eww, gross. The gym towels should never touch the bath towels! Even if they’re clean, that’s disgusting! Right?
Still, I pride myself on the fact that I don’t get annoyed with her over petty things. When she does something that’s the complete opposite of what I’d do, I remind myself that it’s not a big deal. And if it is a big deal, we work something out. We always work something out.
But that wasn’t always how I operated. Keep reading »
There’s more to being ready to be in a committed relationship than a combination of emotional preparedness and luck: it turns out that there are certain traits that can predict whether someone is going to cohabit or marry. Keep reading »
So you’ve finally found The One (or at least The One For The Foreseeable Future) and you’ve committed to a serious relationship. Now what? In our weekly column, Life After Dating, women discuss the unique joys and challenges of coupledom.
When Jeff and I moved in together — after six months of dating — it was out of convenience. My roommates were two dudes, one of which powdered his balls in the bathroom and made fun of my underwear hang-drying in the laundry room. Jeff was a musician living with his bandmates. His place was basically the apartment equivalent of tour bus — a bunch of guys rotating from futon to couch. There was a lot of Pabst Blue Ribbon and not very much food in the fridge. We both wanted out. We wanted to escape our situations. We were 22. There were no long discussions about the future or what living together or breaking up would mean. There was mutual, “OK. Let’s do it.” A week later, we found a place a few blocks away and before we knew it, we were eating pizza off of our very own repurposed crate/ coffee table like a real adult couple. Keep reading »
When you turn 25, it feels like an alarm goes off and all of a sudden everyone is buying houses, getting engaged, and reproducing. Each time I log on to Facebook, I’m met with an onslaught of hearts on the side of my feed that tell me about all the engagements, weddings, and babies that have happened since I last checked in. That’s why everyone gives me the side-eye when I tell them that I’m actually moving out of the apartment that I’ve shared with my boyfriend, Chris, for the past three years and away from the only city I’ve ever called home (I didn’t even leave for college). Not only that, I’ll now be a plane ride away. Chris will stay put in Syracuse, New York, and I’m off to Charlotte, North Carolina, to once again pick out girly shower curtains with a roommate.
Normally when someone moves out of the apartment they share with a significant other, there’s a messy breakup. Clothes are thrown on the front lawn, locks are changed, and one partner may be acting out the entire list of instructions from “Before He Cheats” in the parking lot. In my case, quite the opposite is happening. My boyfriend and I are not breaking up. In fact, he fully supports the move. He’s helped me find apartments to check out, and he’s making the drive down with me to get settled in. The weirdest part is that my job allows me to work from home, so I could technically stay put. But I just can’t accept buying a house across from my high school and calling it a day just yet. There’s nothing wrong with that and a lot of people in my town do it, but I still have some adventure left to get out of my system. When you’ve only lived in one city your entire life, it becomes pretty uninspiring after a while. I need to experience someplace new in order to fully appreciate my hometown and keep growing as a person. Keep reading »
One month ago, I broke my ankle. It was a sort of freak accident – a simple fall on the stairs (being the klutz that I am, that part wasn’t unusual), but one that resulted in a fracture. I was at a bar, and after it happened, I went straight to my boyfriend’s place. He met my cab at the corner, and he’s barely left my side since then.
Navigating New York City on crutches is no easy feat, nor is going about the simplest everyday tasks with a broken bone and a painkiller-clouded brain. So, once I injured myself, my boyfriend started sleeping at my apartment every night. He helped me with meals, propped my foot up, and provided all-around company while I was incapacitated.
Now that the fracture is healing and I need less maintenance, we’re slowly getting back to our pre-anklegate routine: three to five sleepovers and a handful of shared dinners a week. And I’m sad about it. The kicker? He lives across the street from me. I could run to his place, give him a kiss and run back in the span of five minutes if I wanted to. It’s not that I’m dependent on him, or that I don’t like my roommates, but I’ve gotten used to Andy’s regular presence – kissing him goodbye when he leaves for work in the morning, hanging out and playing some pre-dinner Mario Kart with him at night; it just felt so natural and easy.
So, we should move in together, right? It’s not like it hasn’t crossed my mind. After nearly two-and-half years together, if friends aren’t pestering us about marriage, they’re asking us about living together. And they aren’t the only ones. He recently told me he wants to make the move when our leases are up—it’s the logical next step, he says. Keep reading »