This column first appeared in The Sunday Times, here on 16th April 2023.
Are you married? Cohabitating? Procrea-habitating, bickerating or just having a roomiemance? Call it whatever you want, when Gwyneth and Chris Paltrow consciously uncoupled, they changed relationship dialect forever.
And if you’re single, you’re probably on your way out the door, but stick around for a minute, there’s something in this that will make you feel happy with your choices too.
I very much liked living alone. Past tense because I met someone who I also like very much, but who I hope will never read this column. If you know him, please be so kind as to not point it out to him. There are many things I really like about living with him and, of course, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I’m sure he would agree.
The big thing about living with someone, other than sharing a bathroom, is that you come from different places. Even if you were born on the same day, in the same maternity ward, grew up on the same street, watching the same BA Baracus on telly, eating the same TV dinners, still, all families have different operating systems. Those in ours, for example, aren’t slippers and gown people. So I’ve never owned either. And we aren’t pyjama people either, well not the official ones. We sleep in old T-shirts or holey whatevers, and go outside in our socks, ruining them forever. Which means I tend to be fascinated and internally sarcastic whenever I end up sleeping with someone who wears a robe and has warm feet in winter. Proper pyjamas in particular seem oddly formal, especially the ones with the matching pants and a collared button-down shirt. It’s like going to sleep in a suit or to the job interview of your dreams.
So we behave differently. The way we deal with a used tea bag, for example. (Him: squeezed out and balanced on the edge of the sink. Me: set aside on a saucer, intended for the garden at some point, aware that it will probably go mouldy first). Your preferred pillow situation (Him: enough to cushion a five-story fall, and soft, preferably one that’s already under my head. Me: two, but these days just the one seems to do).
We’ve been living together for about three years and I’ve sieved through his life hacks and adopted those that work better for me than the were-you-raised-by-alcoholic-wolves habits I grew up with. Don’t tell him, please, it’s more smug than I can cope with. A big one is using an actual pair of scissors to open packets and boxes. I always thought that was what teeth were for, despite my mother’s “not-with-your-teeth” anthem. But what were we supposed to use? She never suggested a pair of scissors! If she had, maybe I wouldn’t be here, at 48, needing root canal and having to admit that my guy really knows how to live. Also, finally being able to open a bag of rice or muesli without everything going flying. I recently bought a new fridge and when we hefted out the old one, there was enough uncooked rice under there to feed a family.
Another thing about living with someone is the ridiculous conversations. I’m constantly looking for stuff to write about, so for me they’re a bonus. But I can see why jails are full of wives and girlfriends, and Carte Blanche never runs out of stories.
He’s more nocturnal than me, so the majority of these chats happen while he’s on the graveyard shift.
2:01am: Him: Why are you awake? What woke you up? Was it the load-shedding?
2:01am: Me: No, you sneezing!
2:01am: Him: No it didn’t.
2:01am: Me: Yes it did.
2:01am: Him: No it didn’t, I specially sneezed into the pillow so I wouldn’t wake you up.
2:02am: Me: Why ask me what woke me up if you know the answer already?
2:02am: Him: No man, don’t be like that.
2:02am: Me: What? Awake? I’d love to not be like that. (Proceed to beginning of conversation and repeat.)
The fixing stuff is a bonus of having a live-in too. But singles, I told you there would be stuff to be smug about. It comes standard as part of the “non-negotiable fix something, break something more expensive” package and the even more expensive “don’t call a repair person, I’ll look at it on the 10th of never” package.
Let’s see, which other life hacks of his have I adopted? Certainly not his alcohol-free Listerine habit. What’s the point of gargling if you’re not going out with a raw tongue? So maybe the secret of enjoying living with someone boils down to selective habit adoption, selective hearing and a selective memory — whereby you always remember the fixed cupboard door, but make a point of forgetting the broken fridge, the sometimes-leaking toilet that nobody is allowed to come out and fix, and the microwave that caught fire.