Domestic Disturbance
B-O-R-I-N-G.
I’m happy for you… I really am. As close friend, writing partner and one of your biggest fans, true happiness is all I’ve ever wanted for you. Maybe you’ve (finally) found it. Maybe baking banana bread while folding laundry and debating the merits of shampooing the living room carpet is a hidden nirvana for which I lack the depth to appreciate. Maybe re-arranging closets and adjusting to the personal bathroom habits of a loved one warms the cockles of many a heart, despite leaving mine numb and in search of an exit sign. Maybe true love has less to do with passion and fire and living the lyrics of a classic love song, and more to do with all of the little things that transpire between a man and a woman while washing dishes or mowing the lawn or falling asleep together in front of a reality TV show. For the sake of those who still believe, I choose to hope so. For the romantic cynic that still resides in me, I’m not so sure.
So now what? A quick rewind of the last six months of your life reveals a ton of pros, the occasional con, and an engagement as endearing as it was lame, a relocation that probably came too soon, two weeks of tears and terror followed by… domestic bliss. Talk about an oxymoron. Who decided to combine “domestic” with “bliss?” A man and a woman living together and getting married is tough enough… The pressure of turning the “domestic” into “bliss” can be enough to derail even the purest of love affairs. Domestic and bliss should never be paired together; they do each other a complete injustice. Domestic is easy – you had domestic figured out before you even had your driver’s license. Every fairy tale and Disney movie has made sure of that. It’s the bliss, and its elusive nature that renders us all clueless. It’s the bliss, or its lack thereof that turns our hearts upside down and our minds inside out. It’s the bliss that had you move in with this man you love way before you were ready and it’s the bliss you feared you’d lost that had you packing your bag the second week you were there. The bliss is what we all seek, yet only occasionally find. The bliss, at least the promise of it is what keeps us coming back for more, rarely ever knowing if it even exists.
So I repeat… now what? You’re engaged. You live with him. You’re marrying him (eventually). He’s messy? Boo freaking hoo… deal with it. He craps with the bathroom door open? Do you know what that makes him? Every man you know, including your writing partner. You have questions? You don’t need my answers. You’ve always known this is the way it was going to be, and now you’re making shit up because somewhere deep inside you’re afraid it’s all supposed to be different. Somewhere deep inside, you’re afraid it’s supposed to be … better. From this fear, you should release yourself. This is a fear we all share, yet will never solve. This is a fear that simply comes with the territory. This is a fear that keeps people like me living alone and a fear that you chose to ignore when the moving van pulled up in front of your apartment last month. Your new home has plenty of space, but it has no room for this fear, and any regret that might come with it.
He probably thinks you look really cute in your jammies and sweat socks… But yeah, the mouthwash is key.
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Domestic Bliss? Or…
It’s been a few weeks since I moved in with TNG, and I hope I can say the worst is behind us. We’ve argued, I’ve cried, he’s hid, I’ve packed a bag (and then put it away), we’ve argued some more, I’ve cried some more… and now we finally seem to be getting into a peaceful groove. Dare I say we’re settling into domestic bliss? Don’t get me wrong, the house is a disaster zone and I still haven’t unpacked a box, but now that I’m not a crazy lunatic pulling all-nighters, he seems a little more relaxed and a hell of a lot happier to have me around. And yes, I took your advice and decided to be a little more assertive (and a lot more fun) – and it worked. We went on a “date” last night (got drunk) and I baked banana bread this morning – while doing laundry – how much more domesticated can I get? But now that the beginning chaos is over, I’m realizing how little I know about living with a guy (nothing). After years of living alone, I’m feeling like it’s my first year in my college dorms and I have to figure out how to coexist with my new roommate. So, I have a few questions.
After a year of seeing him just on weekends, I’m realizing that he only knew the “groomed” side of me. I made sure I shaved my legs every Friday, I had makeup on, my hair was clean, etc. My question is – do you guys even care? He of course hasn’t said anything, but since I’ve moved in, I’ve definitely been lacking in all of the above. Am I already that woman who I mocked in earlier blogs? The one who trades in her skinny jeans for sweatpants and her makeup for cold cream? Okay, so I’m not totally her yet – but I’m definitely hovering over the drain. Do you think he’s noticed? My gut says no, but I shaved this morning just in case.
Speaking of noticing, let’s talk bedroom – and sleepwear. I sleep in pajamas. They’re cute pajamas, but they’re jammies nonetheless. And yes, sometimes even socks. I know, I know, I just killed the porn dream of the girlfriend who answers the door in skimpy lingerie (which I did a few times) but if this is my home, I gotta be comfortable. So, after I finally found the box with my pajamas, I put them on. Did I just snuff out the fire with one glimpse of heather gray cotton?
As long as we’re on the subject of grooming and sleeping preferences, let’s talk bathroom. I know – T.M.I. – but now that I’m living with someone, I’m really starting to realize just how uptight and tightly wound I actually am. He’s so relaxed about everything; he even leaves the door open. Not only do I have to be on another floor of the house with the fan on… honestly it’s actually better if no one is home. I’ve said it before; I think this man was put in my life to loosen me up a little. He actually snickers at me when I come out looking sheepish. In my family no one can go to the bathroom… call it years of repression. I guess I don’t really have a question on that one. He had to know that at some point in the relationship I would finally go number two.
I’m making small strides. I’m no longer asking for permission to do things, I’m just doing them. I still haven’t adjusted to the fact that someone is in my bed every night (neither has my insomnia) but the mornings sure are nice. Which brings up another question… Now that we live together, do I still have to make the girlfriend run to the bathroom to brush my hair and use mouthwash? I know these seem like stupid questions, but we have met, right?
Hey, at least I’m not crying anymore.
Good Grief, He Said…you’re brilliant. Especially for a man.