Not too long ago, I wrote a post about what I’d learnt living by myself. I’ve lived in my apartment for over a year now, and loved everything about living alone; how deliciously quiet it was, how everything was mine (mess included), and how it was my own little sanctum to escape to after a long day in the office. And then my boyfriend moved in.
Okay, that was a bit dramatic, because, surprisingly, it’s been pretty smooth sailing. (Tbh, definitely thought we’d be ripping each other’s throats out by now.) However, I’ve had to adjust – as, I’m sure, has he – and I’ve started to learn some things along the way. Such as:
boys eat shit all the time
I do not buy biscuits, because – it’s simple – if I do, I eat them. The same goes with chocolate. And full-fat desserts, and crisps that aren’t called something like lite-bitez and have over 100 calories (you’d think I was a stick insect because of that statement, but sadly, it’s just not the case). However, since the boyfriend moved in, there’s a shedload of shit in my house and my fridge and my cupboards, like Lucky Charms cereal and McCoys and full-fat Coke. And he eats CONSTANTLY but is still slim and in shape, whereas I just look at one of his Frijj milkshakes and gain a stone. Unfair.
boys are equally as bad with clothes/shoes/accessories as girls
Not to gender stereotype here, but I definitely thought that I’d have more clothes and shoes that him, because I have a uterus. Then he turned up with about forty boxes of trainers and a selection of snapbacks (who needs more than one? Seriously?), and suddenly there’s socks everywhere and I’m falling over his laptop bag and we’re doing seventy loads of laundry a week. Christ.
suddenly i have to compromise and i don’t like it
So, apparently, guys don’t like Project Runway, especially when the football is also on. Last weekend, I wanted to watch Heidi Klum destroy people’s hopes and dreams, and he wanted the some utterly snooze-worthy Liverpool game, which meant I ended up in bed on my laptop whilst he got the living room. I had a strop about this for like ten minutes, but then he ironed my laundry whilst watching it, so I cooled down. (Is that compromise? Probably.)
having your own space is important
Following on from the above – whilst I resented having to cocoon under the duvet, I do recognise that it’s important not to be on top of each other all the livelong day. The boyfriend plays a lot of golf and football, so I still get my own space at weekends (unless I suddenly become a keen golf enthusiast, which is highly unlikely). And this allows me to do all the crap that I enjoy without him leaning over me whilst I’m watching America’s Next Top Model and being like “but I don’t get it, what exactly is the Tyra suite?”
i can be a bit of a pain sometimes (yes, honest)
Now, I’m sure this is hard to fathom, but living with a boyfriend has kind of made me realise that I’m not the easy going, breath of fresh air partner that I’d like to think I am. Take this weekend, for example. I’ve had a bit of a crap week, so majorly took this out on everyone around me, sitting in my pants and a sweatshirt on the sofa crying about how my life was terrible. And then kicking off when the boyfriend had plans – plans which had been made days earlier – and had to leave my snivelling self in the flat. This, admittedly, is unfair. I am not a very fair person when I’m upset, or angry, and I am very self-indulgent and wallowy when it comes to being miserable. When you live alone, you can be gross and eat Oreos in your period pants whilst sobbing over Grey’s Anatomy, but when there’s someone else there, that needs to be reined in a little. That’s definitely something I need to work on…
it’s not always the honeymoon stage
I mean, duh. But when you live together, it’s even less so: basically, he sees me first thing in the morning when I a) look gross and b) am probably moaning that I’m late for work, or I’m tired, or that he snored and kept me up at night – and then when he gets home, when I’m in my pyjamas with shiny foundation and a greasy hobo-bun hairstyle. Basically, he sees me at my absolute worst, which is definitely something that makes me uneasy (as I’m horribly self conscious); to be honest, I’m convinced he no longer fancies me after I wore my owl-hood dressing gown for a week straight and stopped shaving my legs, and he’s probably sick of doing my washing up. But even so…
…i wouldn’t have it any other way
I’m going to be a bit gross and mushy here, which never happens, so avert your eyes if you’ve got a nervous disposition. Living with the boyfriend is easy, and fun, and I love that when I get home at ten o’clock after travelling for work, he’s there making me crumpets. He takes the bin out without asking and tries to make the bed (even though he puts the duvet OVER the pillows, rather than underneath -WTF is up with that) and lets me watch Take Me Out every night even though he hates it. Basically, I’ve learnt that something I thought would possibly end in disaster is actually pretty good. VOM.