A little before Thanksgiving, I was sitting in my cubicle in the English department putting together my last lesson plan before the break. Because open-office layouts are nothing if not a sanctioned excuse to get distracted by colleagues at literally any moment, I quickly found myself in a conversation with Matt, who had come by the cube to say hi and share our Thanksgiving plans.
I told him that I was hosting my sister and her husband. Just hanging around the apartment and cooking some food at home.
"Oh, yeah. That's right," he responded. "For some reason I always forget you have a sister. And you guys are close, right? It's weird. You're just so... independent, I can't picture you with siblings."
I was deeply, sincerely flattered. I love when people describe me as independent. Partially because I like to think that the adjective implicitly likens me to Beyonce and/or Destiny's Child. But also because, if my life had a subtitle, I'd like it to be, "Linda: She cares deeply for other people and cherishes each and every one of her personal relationships but she also gets along just fine on her own, thank you."
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On a completely unrelated note, I've been cohabitating with GR for about six months now. So how's that going?
For the record: I was never worried that GR and I would be incompatible as human housemates. I already knew that GR is as fastidious as I am when it comes to housekeeping and has never accidentally set a household item on fire. Plus, he follows my lead when it comes to loading the dishwasher, which is pretty much all I've ever wanted in life.
My worry, rather, was that in the crucible of cohabitation, my Beyonce-esque independent streak would prove even stronger than I realized. "Living with your boyfriend" is different than having roommates. I worried that -- particularly after two years of the studio life -- I would secretly (perhaps slowly, and perhaps unconsciously at first) resent having someone always up in my grill, caring about my happiness, wanting to be physically close and share emotional intimacies. What would happen to my relationship if I felt an unexpected, violent need for personal space and wound up elbowing GR in the ribs?
The fact that I read a lot of editorial journalism wasn't helping matters. There has been a ton of stuff written in the last few years about cohabitation, because as a trend it's apparently hotter than Buzzfeed among millennials and thus worthy of endless study and scrutiny. Did you know that cohabitation before marriage actually increases your chances of divorce later on? Maybe? Or maybe not. In any case, was I deciding to cohabitate for the right reasons? Is it an act of feminism to cohabitate? Should I get lawyers involved? Would I be hurting the economy or helping it? (Also, while gathering those links I just learned that cohabitation is technically illegal in Mississippi, Florida, and Michigan. Fun fact!)
Anyway, the point is that no matter how confident I felt about GR leading up to the Big Move, you never really know how anything will turn out until you leap -- until you actually move out of your studio apartment, argue about how to organize closet space, and find yourself engaging in weirdly nonchalant discussions about how many rolls of paper towels you, as a couple, require.
Having taken that leap, it's a relief to have it confirmed: We're doing great. No elbows involved.
(Which may or may not have anything to do with the fact that GR is a lovely human being and an infinitely understanding partner who puts up with me saying things like, "Dude, I need you to go away because I'm reading and you're distracting.")
