I am living with a boy.*
And now I know why couples argue at Ikea. Why double sinks are the dream. How you can poop while the person you love (and have sex with) is in the next room.
I know what it's like to try and combine two apartments'—two lives'—worth of things and end up kicking boxes and fighting and yelling—Fine! Move all your shit here and then decide to leave!—and crying in your friend's apartment. On Thanksgiving, no less.
I know what it's like to want, to need some space, but then miss them when they're gone. What it's like to argue about whose turn it is to wash the dishes, do the laundry, take out the garbage. (His, mine, his, almost always.)
I know what it's like to spontaneously start slow dancing in the kitchen/living room/bedroom, arms around each other, light touches that mean I'll never let go.
I know what it's like when these sweet slow dances turn into spinning faster and laughing louder. What it's like to fall asleep laughing, crying, or harumphing in anger. To touch toes in the morning and move away quickly or snuggle closer, depending on the circumstances of the falling asleep the night before.
I know what it's like to have someone to watch TV with, to cook with, to go grocery shopping with. To have a built-in best friend.
I know what it's like to be doing something mundane, and all of a sudden catch each other's glance and drop everything to uh.... you know.
I post a lot of photos and anecdotes about me and Tony—on Facebook, on Twitter, on Instagram, on this blog—and as a result, everyone thinks we're this super happy, lovely, wonderful, cute couple. And we are, most of the time.
We're not all of the time. And I would never want anyone to think that. Because it's not real. We fight and we argue. About silly things—peach or strawberry jam, toilet paper usage—and about more important things—money, family, cultural differences. Sometimes these arguments/fights are resolved quickly, and sometimes they take a couple days. Most of the time we fight fairly and "nicely." But sometimes we don't. I've thrown a bookbag on the floor and I've used the word "asshole." Definitely not my finer moments. Tony's more patient and less angry than me, but he sometimes tries to avoid talking about things.
Sometimes I want out. But I never want to leave.
The other night, after a particularly bad
*Yes, I know that I should say "man," but I still usually say "boy" and "girl" instead of "man" and "woman." Maybe it's because I'm young at heart? Slash, I'm actually an old lady inside, so maybe that's why?