Cohabitation. The constant irritation.

Living with another human being is a daily test of patience and a feat of self-control. Recently my significant other (boyfriend to be exact, I wear no rings) and I decided not only to move in with one another, but to become home owners as well. I knew it would be difficult. I knew that men and women are from different planets thanks to a cleverly titled book that people often refer to when attempting to verbalize the countless discrepancies between the genders. What I didn’t realize however, was that our planets were in alternate universes and we are really not even of the same species.

“Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other.  Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then.”  ~Katharine Hepburn

Now this lady had it bang on. I have learned from my three months of co-habitation that there are moments and hours and sometimes even days at a time where the company of that certain opposite-sex-someone is fabulous. You can talk and laugh and appreciate each other’s endearing quirks and the small yet considerate things they do for you each day. Sometimes, one can even find oneself warming up to those cute little habits like leaving wet towels on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink and making a spectacle of digestive gases.

Then comes the moment, the hour, the day: when you want to hit them in the face. You don’t of course. That would be bad. But you want to. And when you close your eyes and think about it, or about getting in your car and driving to the nearest watering hole where untold shots glasses of sweet sweet release are beckoning to you from beyond the bar, it makes you smile. If only for a moments before you open your peepers, see him (or her, but for the purposes of this rant I’ll use the masculine) sitting unshaven on the couch in sweatpants, playing that fucking Call of Duty game next to three empty cans of Bud, a bowl of chips and two granola bar wrappers.

This is hardly a crime I know. There is nothing wrong with grown men playing video games, or so they repeatedly assert. I suppose he could have a far worse habit like prostitutes or crack. But I get all mental just the same when he sits and stares at that glowing rectangle in the living room for hours on end while I run about like an ADD kid cleaning the damn house.  I have no doubt that my tendencies irk him in much the same manner. In fact, I know this because he tells me all the time. I’m a bit of a nag, it’s true.

So, ummm, is the visit over yet? Can I go back to my sanctuary next door now with a big glass of wine and re-stock my depleted supply of kindness and tolerance? Not quite.

Last year I lived at home and my parents drove me nuts. I would go to my boyfriend’s house to escape and bitch about them until I felt better. Now, when upset and frustrated by living with this creature I cannot begin to understand, I drive to the house I fled just 90 days ago to sit with my once unbearable parents, watching a smile spread across their faces as I whine childishly about my insignificant problems….

Much like I’ve just done here.