Case in point: the move to cohabitation after a long stretch of independence.
The problem with being so fancy free and dating all the time is that once in a while, you fall very hard for someone, then realize you are perfectly compatible and don’t want to be physically separated because being together is (mostly) more fun than being apart. I’ve often agreed dating is a numbers game and it’s true — you meet enough people, you’re gonna find some gems.
A logical conclusion when you find that crazy amount of compatibility is to commit. Love feels nice, after all. Savor the flavor, shine that pretty, pretty gem and enjoy the thrill of 24/7 companionship.
But moving in… means moving out. For some, this may be an immediate relief, having been starved of kinship and less inclined to enjoy alone time. Partnership = purpose. For others — especially those that thrive on some flexibility and freedom — cohabitation comes with a tricky trade-off. You must relinquish some control and freedom, and it hurts. I fall into this category, big time.
It’s my last night in my small, one-bedroom apartment, in one of the most charming, enviable, walkable parts of my large, ever-alive city. I am moving out of my single lady sanctuary. I’ve been weeping over this, like a big cry baby, for several nights. The only 24/7 companion I have had in this space consistently was my dear sweet Bentley kitty, who very suddenly had to be put down a few weeks ago, and that added sting is not helping my puffy eyelid problem. With all the paw pattering noises and soothing night purrs gone, this deafening silence is helping me realize how much I do, in fact, want to get the hell out.
I just would have never expected this joyous life change to be so… sad. Especially since I rarely have a five minute stretch where I’m not daydreaming about the beautiful amenities laden two-bedroom future haven where I will bask in the sunset light of the balcony view while a dinner is being cooked with care by an extraordinary person who manages to love me, despite my incessant need to organize.
At first, I was in a small state of distress, hoping these cry sessions weren’t a sign of uncharted resentment or bottled feelings. Assuredly, no. I’m simply in the process of mourning my single lady life and all the control I had for those wonderful years of independence. The feelings that overtake me as I try to sleep the last few nights will fade just as rightfully as the pain from losing my dearly beloved feline friend. I’ve given in to the indulgence for one last night and it feels good. I don’t want to pack another box of tissues anyway.
I don’t know that this predicament is addressed much, which is why I feel the need to write about it so openly. Partnership, coupling, love, marriage — it’s always seen as a win or an accomplishment. Not much weight is given to the trade-off. Truly, the loss is profound for someone like me. I have always found power and delight in my independence. Cohabitation was never my goal. It’s simply something I want very much with this person, despite the heavy trade-off.
The two issues are, in fact, separate. The tremendous excitement of moving into a new space with all the thrills of decision making, task sharing and physical closeness is a world of pleasures. The tears aren’t about fear. They aren’t about the partner or the new home. That, somehow, is compartmentalized in its own world emotionally, like anticipating the season two storyline of a great show.
The tears come from pride. Pride that I built everything here, I chose everything, I owned everything, I designed everything just the way I wanted it; I had complete control. I had complete freedom to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted; I could make spur of the moment trips and take jobs far away if needed. I inhabited a social space that has traditionally been reserved for men, but I lived it. It was a really unique time and I will miss many parts of it. I may never have it again. But damn, I’m proud.
So I will happily prepare for a four-slice toaster and get my feet rubbed on the regular. I will delight in the emotional safety net of a listening partner after doing laps in our complex’s heated pool. I look forward to a warm heartbeat that’s closer than expected after I’ve asked him to vacuum crumbs and do dishes so we can wake up to a clean kitchen.
But tonight, I’ll cry one last time.
And that’s okay.
What is precious and sacred about living independently can be equaled by that of choosing a compatible love. Let the new chapter begin.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Shutterstock.com
