Tag Archives: boyfriend

10 Reasons Cohabitating Sucks

The thing is, when you move in with your boyfriend, you’re not just lovers: you’re roommates. Which means everything that ever bugged you about living with someone—the dishes, the electric bill, the volume of the TV in the living room when you’re trying to sleep—nips at the heels of your relationship.

Here are ten (real) reasons cohabitating sucks…

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]


Mass Romantic

ink-heart“I can’t believe you have a boyfriend!” Peter moans, only half kidding.

“Of all people…” Angela laughs.

The circulation department is disappointed, and I don’t blame them. I shrug and smile.

“What are you going to talk about now?” asks Peter. He means it. I spend hours discussing bad dates, broken hearts, and failed romantic gestures. “And even worse — who is going to entertain us with awful dating stories?”

Not me.

There goes half my stories. There goes half the blog.

And my boyfriend (yes, I had to re-write that word several times, as it feels weird and unnatural) says the same thing. A perpetual single to his paired off friends, they look forward to his Jerry Seinfeld type stories.

“What are we going to tell them now?” I asked him the other night, tracing my finger across the bridge of his nose.

“I guess we can regale them with stories of young love?”

We kissed through laughter and turned off the lights.

…And like I said– there goes half my stories. There goes half the blog.

Farewell to the Pressure Kids

I only have three cousins, all in their late thirties, somewhat boring, and no where near New York.

We don’t have much in common.

I suppose I’m closest to Lisa, the corporate lawyer with two screechy girls, a McMansion outside Philadelphia, and a worn-down chip on her shoulder. After a short talk with her, I remind myself to swallow extra birth control pills and throw myself down the stairs if anything feels funky. It’s not that the two kids aren’t adorable (they are) or funny (that, too), rather, an aggravating time-consuming pain in the ass.

And Lisa won’t mince words.

I called her on my way to the coffee shop and she put me on hold twice while she argued with her youngest, Ellie, about not bugging her sister. After two minutes, I began to break out into a sweat.

I decided to keep a morning-after-pill stocked in my bathroom next to the huge stack of condoms dipped in spermicidal lube. I was envisioning freezing some eggs and tying my tubes when a thin voice came on the phone.

“Hi.” I could hear my cousin in the background: Who do you think it is, of course it’s her. I just told you. Say hi.

“Hi,” she repeated.gal

“Hi Ellie.”

“When are you gonna get married?”


I heard laughter in the background, and Lisa yelling: This was totally unprompted!

“In a few years,” I told Ellie.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked. Lisa was hysterical.

“No, no boyfriend.”

“Are you gonna go on a date?”

Lisa took the phone back before I said anything violent to her preschooler. “Oh my god, I didn’t even tell her to say that. Too, too funny.”

“Yeah, really funny. Hilaaarious.”

“It’s because she wants to be a flower girl.”

I had been en route for coffee but suddenly walked towards the bar. “Right. Uh huh. That’s just what my mom says.”

Collision Course

I may be a collision course of a woman, all mud and broken ribs.

After you’ve been tossed off the monster truck of my emotions, that trip in the fuel-efficient hybrid feels good, doesn’t it?

Perhaps I am reading far too into these figures, but there is a noticeable trend. With the exception of the British boy I left behind my semester abroad, my former boyfriends all ran as far away from me as possible and straight into the arms of another, calmer, woman.

Here are the numbers:

The first is happily married in Chicago.
The second is engaged in Hawaii.
The third is still yearning in England.
The fourth is in a serious relationship in Ukraine.

And that leaves me a warpath of a whirlwind in New York – all broken bones, black and blues, and bloody noses. Come back soon. Wish you were here.

Just Keep Swimming

Just to re-cap: I am on a probably-short indefinite hiatus from dating. The last forty-something posts all but flat out say how defiantly single I am. I find most relationships sad excuses for comfort.

When you get to New York City, you either sink or swim. I think most of my friends in relationships are just holding onto each other and treading water.

So I was caught off guard last night as I ate dinner with my friend and her boyfriend. They were incredibly cute and happy together. He picked at her salad and smoothed back her hair. She smiled into his eyes and they glowed at each other. They were beautiful, and it made me sad. They made me cringe. I couldn’t help but remember how cute and happy a boy used to make me feel, or how lovely we were holding hands as we walked down the street oblivious to the passerbys.

This is not to say that I am not cute or happy. I am still cute and happy. But hardened and aggressive and forcing myself to return home that night for a good, long sleep, refusing to call any of the boys back that night.

For now, I’d like to just keep swimming. Maybe next year someone can tread water with me.