The Art of Co-Habitation

A fellow blogger posted some exciting news today. She announced that she’ll be moving in with her boyfriend (and subsequently, moving OUT for the first time ever) in a few weeks.

Naturally I gave my congratulations (Congrats Court!!) but then I got to thinking. Thinking back on the first time I moved out of my parent’s house (and in with my ex…which I suppose we’ll refer to as The Big Ex since I was with him longer than any of the others…so far. The Boo and I plan on demolishing that record very soon. Right, sucker? Love you kiss kiss.)

But in looking back I realize that things are dramatically different this go round then they were the first. That is to say, living with the Boo is nothing like living with the Big Ex.

Part of it was our age and immaturity. The Big Ex was 20 and I was 19 when we first moved in together. Of course we had convinced ourselves that it would work. We had already been together over 2 years at that point (and in teen years that’s like FOREVER) and despite our parents’ voicing their opinion that we should do otherwise, we forged ahead nonetheless and got ourselves our very first place together. And our last.

Within 7 months I had moved out and we were done. I can’t say what exactly it was other than it just wasn’t right. Living together in such close proximity didn’t bode well for our union (despite the fact that we were “together all the time anyways” [Yes, I know now. Not the same thing. SOOOO NOT the same thing.])

The first few months went smoothly enough I suppose but that quickly dissolved and found us fighting about everything. And I do mean EVERYTHING. It wasn’t pretty, people. Tears abounded, eye rolls and slammed doors were around every corner and annoyances and petty fights greeted us with just about each day. So much to the point that one rainy Saturday night I found myself hopelessly staring out the car window and whispering “I’m done.”

And that was it. From then on I SWORE I would never live with someone until we were engaged. It wasn’t worth it. Too much stress, strain and unnecessary problems. NOT. GONNA. HAPPEN.

And then the Boo happened.

Within 8 months of knowing him and 3 months of being together I packed up all my worldly treasures (ie. my laptop, a couple books and my Kelly Clarkson cds) and moved AWAY from everyone and everything I knew to move IN with him.

And here I am, 6 months later and I must say that this time around it is completely different. Maybe it’s our older wiser years (ha), maybe it’s experience and maturity, or maybe we’re just better together. I’d say it’s probably all of the above.

Living with the Boo has taught me that co-habiting with your spouse can truly be an amazing journey if you find the right person and if you both operate under a code of mutual respect. It is a constant exercise in patience, understanding, and consideration and when you find just that right balance you know you’ve got something good.

That isn’t to say that we don’t annoy each other every now and then. I could care for a little less prison documentaries and I’m sure he would love it if I’d tone down the crazy from time to time but that’s who we are. And we’ve learned how to compliment each other’s weaknesses rather than criticize them.

I know I can be a bit of a handful (I’m a fan of the understatement) but the fact that he can take it all in stride ON A DAILY BASIS really says something.

Then again maybe the Boo and I should rehash that old oath I had about not living with anyone until I had a ring. (What? I’m getting’ that Tacori somehow.)

(Did I mention I was a tad on the crazy?)