It was back in July 2014 when my boyfriend and I decided to embark on the ultimate young people’s social experiment. After a mere year of dating, we made the leap to move in together.

I wish I could say this decision was made purely from a place of deep romance and poignancy; that we were so enraptured by one another we immediately dumped our roommates out of a desperate, passionate need to share a bathroom.

But alas, we were the dumpees.

My beautiful and spunky former roommate decided she would prefer to live every day accompanied by above-zero winters and an ocean view and moved to Vancouver to live with her boyfriend.

She now wakes up to cartoon birds and mice that enchant her with high-pitched songs as they dress her in only a jean jacket because apparently that’s all you need to survive a west-coast winter.

Traitor.

Similarly, the boyfriend’s roommates decided they both wanted to become fully functioning adult males and live in their own places with bizarre home décor contraptions like doors…and curtains.

I tell you all of this because it is important to note that when it comes to relationships, I am more of a wade veryyyyy slowly into the water, turn and bolt out, skulk along the shoreline and then finally begrudgingly dip a toe in, than I am a dive-right-in sort of gal.

Another less delicate way to put this is that I only make important decisions on relationship commitment and progress when forced into a corner, and then kept in that corner for an extended period of time with a gun to my head.

In this case, the gun came in the form of…gulp… LIVING WITH A BOY.

To prepare myself for this dramatic change in my life I made a lot of both mental and physical lists. Things like, “Worst case scenarios” and “Ways that I am more mentally prepared for the zombie apocalypse than for living with my boyfriend” and finally, “The pros and cons of keeping a completely full ready-to-go storage locker in case I have to quietly slip away into the night.”

It has always been the case with me that I operate better in situations when I prepare myself for the worst possible outcome, and then anything that differs from that outcome is deemed a pleasant surprise.

SPOILER ALERT: It’s all been one GIANT pleasant surprise. I mean, pleasant in that way that’s it’s almost been TOO easy a transition, and that most days I have more difficulty choosing between light or regular cream cheese than I have living with him.

That being said, let’s be honest, no one really wants to hear about some perfect couple made of rainbows and honey that falls asleep every night holding hands on a bed of clouds. Life isn’t like that; I would never want it to be.

The most beautiful part of life lies in its imperfections, and in caring about someone enough to continually enter the battlefield together.

And oh how we’ve battled.

Living with someone is the equivalent of placing all your worst habits, insecurities and characteristics on a platter and then offering them to another human to accept. And not only do we expect them to be accepted, we are somehow insane enough to believe that this other human should them endearing. Like we should all just be walking around uttering a continual stream of, “Oh babe, I think it’s cute you’re the spawn of Satan first thing in the morning, and that pizza box that’s been sitting by our front door for the last 3 days is friggin adorable. Awww, is that a recently clipped toenail on the floor? How charming!”

All the pretense of dating, the ability to be the best version of yourself when you’re out with them, all of that disappears. There is no acting; that other person is going to see you for all the sides of your personality, and from unfortunate angles you’ve probably never even seen yourself.

On that note, word of advice for both sexes: if you want to keep the fire alive, never put on socks naked if the other person happens to be sitting directly behind you.

So naturally, this dropping of the curtain can cause some pretty ridiculous friction. I mean think of all the absurd things you couldn’t possibly imagine having a disagreement on (e.g. cracker brands, toilet paper costs, what temperature the room is set at).

Yep, you’ll argue about all of them.

Take for example the below nonsensical differences of opinion we’ve engaged in:

1. Why I am the only human who’s ever deemed the microwave an appropriate place to bake a potato. (I’ll tell you why – 3 minutes BEGINNING TO END people. It takes 20 minutes just to heat up an oven. I would much rather spend the extra 17 minutes trying to find just one pair of matching socks in my closet. It’s called PRODUCTIVITY)

2. His remarkable ability to make the bed in the exact wrong way on a daily basis. You’d think with 2 throw pillows and 1 quilt there would be a maximum of 5 ways to screw it up but no, I’ve been the witness approximately 62.

3. My refusal to walk 10 feet to the recycling chute of our building. I prefer to create an elaborate Jenga-esq pile of boxes and tin cans under our sink. The taller it gets, the easier I am able to detach myself emotionally from its existence.

4. His use of our communal bath towels to shower with after hockey. Have you ever smelled post-hockey hands? I feel like it’s a serious issue that probably comes up often in marriage counseling sessions, and the smell rubs off on EVERYTHING. I’d rather host a condo bonfire than have to get close enough to wash them.

5. My general inhuman behavior before I’ve had coffee in the morning. This is less an argument in itself as it is the trigger of almost all of the above arguments.

6. A mutual dissatisfaction with each others’ inability to refill the water jug in the fridge. This isn’t even some fancy Britta-type situation where you have time to conceive and birth a child while the water trickles through a filter. No, we have a dollar store jug that we fill with tap water to keep it cold. Yet neither of us has developed the aptitude to complete the two-sstep process of turning slightly to the left and turning the tap on to keep it constantly refilled.

Now who wants to come over to our party pad and enjoy a baked potato and some room temperature H2O?!

And yet, here is what I can tell you in short: Sharing an 800 sq ft condo with a significant other has been one of the best experiences of my life. And it’s been so fantastic not in spite of the above arguments, but because of them.

Because if you can’t stand the way someone makes the bed, the way they leave every door in the house ajar, and the way they chew food like they are sound checking for Madison Square Gardens; if you hate all that and you still want to stick around to see what new annoying habit they develop next…well, that’s love baby.

And I haven’t even come close to using that storage locker.

 

E.