I'm Not Ready To Live With My Boyfriend

I’m a romantic at heart, both in the 19^th century poetic sense, and in the way that I’ve always been a huge sucker for Meg Ryan rom-coms. I mean, I’m one of those people who could easily spend an entire weekend in front of When Harry Met Sally, or even You’ve Got Mail without considering those days wasted. And I suppose I always viewed marriage as the pinnacle of romance; I knew so little about the actual institution and what it required that I jumped into it, “much in the same way a labrador leaps into a swimming pool”, to quote Elizabeth Gilbert.

And hey, we all know how well that worked out. I’ve been writing for a year about the different ways divorce has affected me and how indescribably difficult the trauma has been to shake. I don’t think it’s a big secret that even today, I’m still a little waterlogged.
   

But that being said, I am moving on. I’m dating, and I’ve fallen in love with a really wonderful guy who is great to me, great to my kids, and even great to my ex, which is more important than some might think. He’s sweet, stubborn, hilarious, hot-headed, infuriating and incredible, so gentle but rough around the edges too, a collage of smooth grooves and sharp spots that prick. Somehow, he loves all my patchy imperfections (so perhaps he’s also insane) and there’s an exciting, firecracker-y energy between us that makes me feel like together anything is possible. He’s also the first man I’ve met or dated who seems strong enough to withstand the blazing heat that my emotional intensity can radiate− sometimes, he can even match it.

And that’s good for me; I’m fond of joking that I “like to do things the hard way”, but it’s far too true. This year one of the biggest traits I’ve begun to recognize in myself is that I’ve never been very at peace with peace; I’ve always preferred a challenge. Relationship-wise, as my counselor pointed out recently, I’m not the type of girl who can practice tennis with a ball-machine− I need a partner who’s able to really whack it back at me.

Today, I think I’ve met that person. And when that happens, inevitably your brain (and the brains of those you’re closest to) begins wondering about “the next step”, or how you can take the relationship further. Maybe it comes from a desire to publicly legitimize your partnership, now that you’ve privately done so. Maybe it’s just what all those rom-coms have told us about true love: first comes love, then comes marriage… or maybe in this day and age, first comes love, then comes cohabitation.

But in all honesty, I’m not ready for it. We’re in love, we’re committed, and he checks all the boxes, but I’m not ready to move in with him.

Of course we’ve talked about it; we’re not teenagers after all, but two adults with busy lives who are keen to move them forward. We’ve gotten to know each other’s families and friends well, he’s watched my kids on his own many times, and a few weeks ago we took a ten-day trip to England together which was a real test.  

So I wish I was prepared for more; it would make so many things easier. Economically, moving in together would cut my rent and other living expenses in half, and duties like groceries and dinner could be shared. I’d have someone to help fold my kids’ laundry, or to wash dishes with, and I wouldn’t need to get a babysitter anymore on those nights I want to go out. As well, it would allow us exponentially more time together than we currently get; between my school and mom life, and his busy work schedule, we only get to see each other on the weekend and even then we aren’t always unhampered.

Plus, he wants us to live with him; impossibly, this crazy man is into the idea of my daughters and me to making his house our home, into taking on all the (often thankless) responsibility that that brings. And there my girls would have their own lovely rooms, a large backyard to run barefoot across, and a sense of permanence my tiny basement suite just can’t provide. Whatever struggles we’d face in adjusting we could overcome together, and by the time my kids entered kindergarten next September they’d be fully settled into their new home and routine.

But despite all of this goodness, I’m just not ready yet.

I’m not ready because one of the first things I did when I moved into my suite was hang all the pictures in my house exactly where I wanted them (if a little crookedly). I’m not ready because I love making dinner and actually having leftovers. I’m not ready because it feels amazing to embrace single habits (like my weird midnight routine of simultaneous cleaning and weight-lifting) without worrying I’ll get on anyone’s nerves. I’m not ready because I love hosting loud girls’ nights without having to factor in anyone else’s feelings about it. I’m not ready because I’m able to crowd my shower ledges with twenty different, half-empty bottles of shampoo and body wash if I want to. I’m not ready because I love spending evenings alone with a book, a mug of tea, and no sound except the turning of a page. I’m not ready because even though doing all of the cleaning and chores by myself is a ton of work, it also builds my confidence. I’m not ready because I sleep blissfully alone like a burrito starfish.

I’m not ready because once I got through those first few bitter months without a live-in partner, it started to taste like freedom.

Maybe I could still do all that while cohabitating. But I’ve leapt blindly before and crashed badly, with my kids on my back; I’m not eager to do it again. Someone once said that insanity is doing the same thing over again and expecting a different result, so this go-around I’m trying a new approach. I’m giving the brakes a tap, because this time I want more. I believe in more.

And I want my girls to believe too, in more possibilities than I ever did; I want them to know that a happy ending doesn’t always equal a prince whisking you on his white horse to his castle, but instead that you can get your own damn castle (and ride, too) if you want it. I want them to know how to hang their own pictures, move their own furniture, fix a flat tire, and watch endless reruns of Wonder Woman so they realize how much they’re capable of. I want them to shake off this notion of love and cohabitation as the end-all-be-all and realize that they can have that if it makes them happy, but that they’re brimming with other inward treasures too. I don’t care if they aim for big goals or small, I just want them to aim at all.
  

Don’t get me wrong; my inner romantic is still alive and well. But somehow, this time, I believe that perhaps true love doesn’t have to be a rushed, frantic affair. That love can be slow and steady, and can be allowed to bloom gradually over several seasons. That maybe just cherishing my partner and making the most out of the moments I have with him is enough for now. More than enough. And that maybe what we have doesn’t need to be publicly legitimized to be real; that falling into the universe’s flow, and living in the present is as much control over my relationship as I need to exercise. For me, maybe patience is the real key to permanence.

I might not be ready to take that next step for years, and to be honest, that scares me; I turned twenty-seven a few weeks ago, and I can see thirty on the horizon. But I won’t cave to my own ticking clock, to the pressure of that nagging parent, Expectation. Because in the end, I’ve discovered that joy is joy is joy is joy, and it exists, it persists outside of the realm of our established beliefs and limits. And I’m happy to be there too.