Adaptation

There’s an art form to living with another human being.

I’m not talking roommates, though there’s an art form to that too, but it can devolve into something a lot more passive aggressive and it’s perfectly acceptable to just be living with a roommate for the convenience of cheaper rent.

If you have a crappy roommate you just hide the good kitchenware, put your name on all your food, and keep your areas as clean as you prefer them. I had a friend who had a “Caution” Tape area where he would stack his roommate’s dirty dishes and they would just stay there for weeks and the rest of the kitchen would be spotless.

Living with a human being who you care about, share a bed with, wear a ring for…well, that is a different sort of art form.

We live in a world of “I can’t believe people used to…” and I think premarital living arrangements are one of those. People still do wait to live together until after marriage, and holy moly, more power to them.

While we have never gone to bed without apologizing or at least cooling down a bit, and while in the same house never made the other sleep in a different bed (or on the couch), there were some times that I’m pretty sure the only reason we stayed together was because we didn’t have to. I’m also pretty sure that doesn’t sound the way I mean it.

With marriage comes a sense of permanence and inescapability. It’s not a bad thing, and it soothes my soul and makes my husband more confident that I won’t leave him if he has a particularly mephitic evening. But three, almost four years ago when we first “shacked up” there were times that those particular constraints would have driven us past our breaking point. By having the opening we would never take, we learned and developed the art form of living with each other.

The years that we have lived together we have learned to adapt. We have learned to compromise. We have learned which battles are worth fighting and which shall be left alone.

Because I swear to God, I will never understand how the man can go to the kitchen for a glass of water and manage to leave every single cupboard door open. But now, I follow behind him, sometimes muttering quietly in aggravation, and close them all, because it’s not worth the fight. It shouldn’t even be a fight, though it was on occasion.

I promise this is not a negative post, though I’m realizing it might sound that way. It was supposed to be humorous.

There is an art form to living with another human being.

I have learned that in the mornings I shouldn’t speak, or be too chirpy at my husband. I’m a morning person once I’ve committed to being awake. He is most decidedly a person who prefers sleeping to all else – I have never seen a greater commitment to napping from anyone other than our cat. So in the mornings, when he is forced to wakefulness, he is a silent, sullen, and easily-grumpified person.

Kind of like me when someone is making me do an activity I don’t want to do.

I have learned that if he is in a mood, I must stifle my natural instincts to discover, cheer up, and cure the mood. Me pestering him about it or trying to fix it, nullify it, or cower away from it will simply make things worse. I have to just act like nothing is wrong, go about my business, and wait for him to move on and come to me.

He has learned that sometimes I just get grumpy. Sometimes I yell for no apparent reason. Sometimes I’m just out of sorts and there’s probably a reason but it’s not usually the reason I’m upset right now. He’s learned to hug me when I’m ready, fuss me out of the mood, and let me cry.

He has learned that my cleaning is sporadic, spastic, and odd. I believe in piles and in “from a speeding horse.” Meaning that so long as all the clutter is neatly stacked in a place that makes sense and that the dirt and dust is not obvious unless you’re looking for it, we’re good enough. Though I will go into “deep cleaning mode” on occasion and usually out of procrastination, and will deep clean random spots of the house and totally, obliviously miss other spots.

I have learned that I should always try to sort the silverware when putting it in the dishwasher, and he has learned to always try to remember the toilet seat. But we no longer battle it out. We save our energy for fights that actually mean something.

We are still learning every day, still growing together, and still both have meltdowns and misunderstandings. But that is why living with someone who you care about is its own particular art form.

How have you adapted to the person in your life?

Ciao,

kc