pistola whipped: time to shack up?

My girl Pistola waxes philosophical on the prospect of moving in with her (entirely cool) boyfriend.

At what point in a relationship is it okay to throw romance, passion and the beauty and solace of one’s apartment or house for a shared living space?

I’m not exactly sure, but I have been thinking about it lately. And not just for fun but because it may be time. Yep, time to co-habitate with the boyfriend.

We’ve been dating roughly seven months, haven’t known each other even a year and here we are: I’m forwarding him house listings from MLS. We’re emailing about yards, square footage, mortgages and central air conditioning. And it’s fun…right now. Speculating about our future, dreaming of barbecues in the backyard with all of our perfect couple friends. Decorating to each of our own tastes, satisfying both of our odd collections. I can see myself now, shaking my head and fighting a smile as I re-wash the dishes that my boyfriend carelessly rinsed and threw in a pile next to the sink. Oh, good times. And I’m sure we can still maintain our interesting and exciting sex life after taking out the trash, weeding the garden, painting over the weird kitchen borders the previous owner chose to hang, paying bills and sending off the errant solicitor. I’m sure we won’t disagree or grow sick of each other. I’m sure we’re the exception to the rule.

So, why should we carry on the way we are? I mean what’s great about having a safe, solo haven where I can drink a bottle of Cabernet and listen to stupid songs and air sing at the top of my lungs and fall over and break my own stuff without having to feel guilty about it the next day? I actually don’t like standing in front of the open fridge door in my underwear dipping sweet and sour pickles into a jar of crunchy peanut butter. Well, I don’t actually like doing it in front of others. And I mean, I hate going on the annual weekend-long garage sale tour with my friends and picking up the grossest paintings I can find and hanging them on my walls immediately after getting home. I hate that.

And what do I do when the boyfriend and I get in a fight? It’s nice to go home and fling myself dramatically in my bed and shamelessly pound on the pillows with nobody watching except for the movie audience I am acting for in my mind. What bed can I do that in if he’s already done it in ours?

I guess I’m struggling with a battle against the unknown. I know things right now are fantastic, awesome, and truly fabulous. I still get smug when one of my imperfect couple friends (scratch them off the backyard barbecue list) complains about their boyfriend’s showering habits. Like that he doesn’t shower. And I know that mine does, because he has time alone in his own apartment where he showers and writes songs about me and emails all his friends about the super cool chick he is thinking about buying a house with. I can still imagine him doing all this independent stuff and that warm feeling surges through me. But is that warm feeling true affection or is it because he is doing stuff I don’t get to know about and do with him?

I imagine we’ll end up living together. It seems like the natural progression of this thing that I like to call a relationship. I suppose we’ll just end up being another couple, buying a house and playing at being adults. Perhaps we’ll fail? Maybe we’ll succeed. What if he comes home one night and I’m on my knees, earnestly singing along to Bob Seger’s ‘We Got Tonight’ and he likes me for it? Even loves me for it? And what if he likes doing that too? Then we could listen to the Kenny Rogers/Sheena Easton duet version instead and fall down and accidentally break each other’s stuff (I’ve never liked his Ikea chairs anyway). Maybe it’s too jaded to think too far ahead in the future and assume that all the day-to-day stuff can get in the way of the cool thing we have. I think Bob sums it up the best, ‘We’ve got tonight, who needs tomorrow, we’ve got tonight babe, why don’t we stay?’
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