When two people love each other, they get married.
In this day and age, they move in together. Let's not pretend, and come on girls, I think you have my back when I say, at least on our end, it's a test to see if we can live with the deep, dark, slovenly secrets you menfolk have behind closed doors beyond Axe-ing yourself from head to toe, smelling your laundry that is cataloged in a complex caste system of varying levels of "clean", throwing on the crumply Level-4 shirt (that's the "I can scam one more day out of this shirt before it's heinous, but it looks clean" level) and jumping in the car to take us for another nice night out at Applebee's. But that's the beauty of this crazy world. You guys think you're so damn suave, and all along we know you do that just to impress us - and that is why we love you guys in the first place.
Move-in day: your boxes, his boxes, it's all so new and wonderful. Books are mingled on a shelf. Mismatched kitchen items, his sheets and yours folded together in the linen closet, the first trip to the grocery store to pick up the essentials, including his favorite flavor of juice and the only brand of chips you buy; it's so enlightening to see this little peek into each other that you've never noticed before. It's a great symphony composed of you and him, and it meshes together so perfectly, because it's you. Only now, you = "us".
Cohabitation is achieved. It's been a few weeks, and you have subliminally established the little preferences that you both require. Your loofah belongs hanging from the tub faucet, not plopped on the toilet lid when he jumps in the shower because it gets in the way. He folds his pants and underwear inwards, then in half, not rolled up and perfectly lined in a drawer. The glasses get put away mouth down and dry, and are not simply rinsed out so they can be used anew. His xbox games do not need dusting, alphabetizing or feng shui. He has made peace with the fact that you insist the bed is made nicely every night, and you have resolved that he will perpetually stick his feet out from under the covers all night. He has to handle the tampons, birth control pills and the occasional hanging wet bra fresh out of the wash. You have to deal with fast food cups all over the computer desk, his socks just missing the hamper, and the fact that he will always plop his keys on the dining room table for fear of losing them. Welcome to compromise. You are officially sharing space.
By now, a year has passed. A renewed lease. Things are comfortable. At this point you may even be married. It doesn't seem different, but there's a piece of paper in the filing cabinet and it is "official". The mismatched plates have been replaced by the registered stoneware, with matching tumblers and silverware. The sheets that were folded together in a color scheme chaos are saved for late night crashers and the couch. Now a lovely matching bedding set is on the bed, along with matching curtains and even a nice little art piece above the bed. The comic books are in storage, as is your high school box, you guys are grown ups. The xbox is now a nice date night at home with a bottle of wine and a bowl of popcorn because you're saving up to buy a house and going out to the bars happens less and less.
Then you buy that first house. And it's ALL YOURS! You paint it, hang the drapes, decorate, place scented candles and start getting that second bedroom to look less like an office and more like a nursery. By now you two have found your harmonious sense of collaborative style, when people come to visit they see your house as a definition of the two of you. The meshing of two lives is complete. Life is good, you are into your routines, you're used to him clipping his nails in bed, and he is used to you farting in your sleep and not remembering. It all stops grossing you both out. And long, long ago, you both stopped running every water source in the bathroom to poop. Now, you're having normal conversations about bills and the Bears game while one is shouting from the bathroom. Every once in a while, you step back and look, and ask yourself, how did it all come together so easily?
Fast forward a few years. Now when you try to take a step back, you can barely visualize those two strangers who first moved in together, let alone life without the magnificent child(ren) you have made; little replications of the two of you, that no one can ever separate. You're a little tired, you have no idea what "me-time" is, but you wouldn't trade anything for the world.
Then it happens.
I'm not sure where in the story it happens, but somewhere....something just...happens.
You walk into the bathroom. Another Monday morning and you're weaving slowly towards the shower in a haze. The little one already asks if he can go to McDonald's that day, you want nothing but coffee, and the husband is already out of the shower, shaving. Then you see it.
He has your toothbrush in his mouth.
"What the hell is that about?"
"What?"
"That's my toothbrush. In. Your. Mouth."
He looks in the mirror, puzzled. He looks back at you.
"So?"
"That's disgusting."
"Honey, if that's the worst bodily fluid we've exchanged-"
That's when you snap. And not in the bad way. You realize that this "me-time" thing isn't such a bad idea after all.
"It's MY goddamned toothbrush. Can't I have ANYTHING TO MYSELF????"
He is bewildered.
This is when you start thinking of all the things you have shared in this blissful sanctuary of commitment. Your white socks...blotted black in the heels because he stuffed them into his combat boots the day he realized all his socks were in the laundry. Even the pink striped ones you bought specifically to hinder this behavior. The one box of granola bars-the chewy chocolate covered ones you bought just for yourself - that disappeared and you thought you forgot them at the store- until the box showed up in the cabinet - empty. You feel the rage coming on. After all the dishes, laundry, checkbook balancing, diaper changing, vacuuming. This is what I wake up to? I can't even have my own toothbrush??? How does someone LOSE a toothbrush???
Tossing it into the garbage and unwrapping a new one, a montage of all the things that you do that go unnoticed, unacknowledged, unappreciated plays out. You brush your teeth and get on with your day, a little surlier than planned.
While at work he surprises you with flowers and takes you out to lunch for upsetting you. Upon noticing his arrival, you pause your iPod and remove your earbuds-HIS earbuds that he let you borrow because you dropped yours in tomato soup and ruined them. You smile, feel like a jerk, then put on your hoodie- HIS hoodie, because he gave it to you this morning due to the unusual chill in the air while you were ranting about not finding yours. And the fact that it smells like him makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. And yet this man is still smiling at you. Still wakes up next to you after 8 years of marriage, all the loops and drops and turns it has taken, and looks into your crusty eyes...right in range of your nasty morning breath; and smiles. He still tells you every morning how beautiful you look when you sleep.
It makes you realize all the ruined clothes from baby spit up, all the socks tarnished, the treats being eaten, the little inconveniences you can't stand when in your little rage are worth it.
It makes you realize: he's the only guy on Earth you'd ever share your toothbrush with.
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