February 14th, I got engaged to the love of my life. One month later on March 14th, we made the split-second decision to flee our home and asked his sister if we could temporarily stay with them in Texas. And here we are on April 14th, basically moved in with my future in-laws with no end in sight and trying not to kill each other. At least once a day I catch myself looking down at my ring, taking a deep breath, and reminding myself that I signed up for this. But did I? Did any of us?
I think everyone can agree that besides Tiger King, the only thing keeping us sane in 2020 is the abundance of memes on Instagram. My personal favorites are the ones like “Day 27 of Quarantine, I have realized that I can’t stand the sound of my husband breathing.” I spoke to a friend recently who said she never realized how loud her partner chewed and has now resorted to playing loud music whenever they dine together. Which is every single meal, every day.
Don’t get me wrong, things could be worse. SO MUCH WORSE. I have a roof over my head, a job, and plenty of (too much?) food. I also have a loving partner who said last night that he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. To which I said, “Really? Still?”
Living together is hard. I remember when Chris and I first made the decision to move in together, about 1.5 years into our relationship. I was SUPER nervous about it. I had lived with people my entire life, from parents to roommates, to more roommates, then MORE roommates, because NYC, ya know? Anyway, I had never shared a room with someone besides for one year in a dorm with a roommate who basically slept at her boyfriend’s apartment. And I certainly had not shared a bathroom with a boy besides my brother, who I could just hit if he left the toilet seat up. But a tiny 1-bedroom apartment with a man who I couldn’t just hit when I got annoyed? That was uncharted territory. And it was not easy.
There were socks everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. I would take the sheets off and find anywhere from 2-7 single socks at the bottom of the bed. Socks in the bathroom, in the living room under the couch. RIGHT next to the hamper. And don’t get me started on the dang toilet seat. It’s an ongoing battle. We are still in training, much like when you adopt a puppy, but it’s “please don’t pee on the seat” instead of “please don’t pee in the corner on the rug” (but also sometimes that).
Thankfully, this quarantine happened after Chris and I had already been living together for 3 years, so we had both come to terms with each other’s eccentricities. We were prepared. Or we thought we were.
Narrator: “They were not prepared.”
Living with each other in your own home is one thing but living in someone else’s home is a completely different thing, especially when it is one of your family’s homes. Don’t get me wrong, I love his family. First of all, they are INCREDIBLY generous allowing us to come from the heart of the pandemic in NYC and move in on 6 hours’ notice, literally. Also, they have never been anything but welcoming to me. But that doesn’t change the fact that it is not my house.
There’s a level of comfort in knowing where the containers are and knowing that each top has a bottom because if it doesn’t, you throw it out.
Or knowing that the pillows are the right height so your neck doesn’t feel off all day.
Or knowing that by 11 am, everyone is awake and you can blast music to do a workout class or run the blender to make a protein shake.
Or knowing when the dishes in the dishwasher are clean. (Side note: I have spent 4 weeks now using my incredibly stealthy detective skills to try and figure out their system. I still have not made any headway.)
If you’re sitting at home reading this and playing the world’s smallest violin for my troubles, I get it. There are people out there struggling to survive. People in abusive relationships or without loving partners. I am lucky to have a loving partner, but he treats this house like it is his parent’s home with mommy dearest to clean up after him. Except she isn’t here, I am. And I am the guest, so I feel the need to clean up, pitch in, cook, fold laundry, etc. He feels the need to do NONE of those things except prance down the stairs when he smells bacon. This literally happened today.
This is certainly not the way I would have predicted our engagement to go. Thankfully, we have both been really busy with work. As you know from my previous blogs, one way we try to stay sane and keep from yelling at each other for breathing is by having a weekly date night. This has disappeared. I keep telling him he needs to plan something for me. ANYTHING. A picnic for lunch. A hike. Breakfast in bed. He told me today he is “just waiting to surprise me.” I told him it’s been 4.5 weeks and I’m sick of waiting. But what other choice do I have? Where am I going? Literally NOWHERE.
The good news is that we were not in any rush to get married, so we haven’t lost money or time on deposits or slashed dreams. The bad news is that there are no future plans in place to keep us together. We are holding it together by a tiny band of platinum and a not-as-tiny diamond. And love. Sometimes. When he picks up his socks.
