A Girl...

Merge

Yesterday we celebrated our nation's independence by inhaling dustmites until our snot turned black and chunky like it does after a night around the campfire. We spent the entire day cleaning Simon's apartment, including organizing The Closet Into Which We Would Like Things to Disappear, But They Don't, They Just Stay There Until We Open the Door and Haul Them Out Again and Try to Spirit Them Away by Sheer Force of Exasperation.

So we cleaned the closet and scraped an inch of cat hair from the thrones, moved the drumset, framed the piano with rock and roll photos Simon's dad took (Jethro Tull, Faces, Pete Townshend), switched rugs between rooms, and moved the futon in the kitchen because we're giving the Real World asthetic a try. And although we haven't yet worked out the specifics of the cohabitation, there was an unspoken sheen of usness in the decisions being made--"Do you like these photos on this wall?" "Are you attached to this turquoise office chair or can I throw it out the window?" "How do you feel about putting wicker baskets EVERYWHERE?" It's not yet officially "our" place, but that train is shining its light down the tunnel, so it was with that future in mind that we were negotiating things we've never had to negotiate before.

Since I introduced you to Simon nearly a year ago, our relationship has been on a pretty smooth track. Our goals and values are aligned, our personalities tetris snugly together, and we're both good enough at keeping things in perspective that little annoyances never morph into shouting matches, and the proper way to squeeze a toothpaste tube is never a battle worth fighting. When it comes to building a home together, though, some battles are worth at least bringing the two generals together for peace talks since we both have to look at and be comfortable in the apartment every day. And, ah yes, there's the rub, as it were.

Since Simon has a much more pronounced sense of style than I (his turn-of-the-century parlor house vs. my 2002 IKEA catalog), our shared space will undoubtedly always look more like him than like me. Which is okay, because I like his style a lot, but part of me feels a little uneasy that what's mine will get lost behind the red sateen curtain and surrealist art, even though I've deferred to (most of) it with nothing short of alacrity. BUT--it sounds stupid--it's almost like I'd rather hold onto some of my sucky stuff just because it's mine. I should, for instance, have no problem throwing out the cracked blue hand-me-down dinner plates in favor of his fresh-from-the-box, sleek white stoneware, but then where does that stop when everything he has is newer or nicer than mine?

At this point in the post, Simon has probably already emitted a dozen grunts of protest because he's asked me a thousand times if I'm okay with everything, and where would I like to put the coffee table, and if I'm sure I'll be able to feel at home there and not like I'm moving into a place that is wholly someone else's. When he asks, I say yes, I'm okay, let's put the coffee table over there, and certainly, of course, I have always felt at home here. But there's still...something. I don't know. I guess it's because I overlap with him in places he doesn't overlap with me, so I let him have his way--willingly--and then the Thumbelina feminist inside me revolts in her pipsqueak voice because I WILL NOT BE OPRESSED. Sheesh.

Example: When I found myself living on my own for the first time, I decorated my bedroom with big framed art nouveau French posters, and I hung over my stove two vaguely vintage French advertisements pasted on boards. For my bathroom, I ordered two sweet little watercolor bras by Penelope, and I smile every time I see them. Now, clearly the bras are not something I would think of subjecting Simon to, but I kind of like the art nouveau posters even though they probably make Simon's eyes roll in his head. But let's take a look at what's in his bathroom, shall we? A painting of a very sour-looking green-haired fellow chained to the toilet on which he is squatting, all of this against a backdrop quote by T. S. Eliot that says, essentially, we're all doomed, doomed, dooooomed.

Now, I like the painting--I like it a lot--but it screams Leah about as much as a yellow and white striped demi bra with lace trim screams Simon. Examples B, C, and D are the watercolors in his kitchen: (B) a cow eating its own udder, (C) a man very messily blowing his brains out with his gun-as-finger, and (D) a castaway on a deserted island turning his own severed foot on a spit over an open flame. All wonderful and interesting and rendered by an immensely talented artist friend, but yeah, not really me at all, even if you squint your eyes.

But what's a girl to do when he doesn't like my stuff, and I like his stuff but don't identify with it? How come he gets to put his Star Wars toys on the shelf in the media room? How come I feel icky and weird when he puts up even the smallest smidgen of resistance after I suggest moving the blue rug into the room with the matching blue couch because it will fit so much better there? How come I feel the urge to equate my value as a girlfriend with how much I let him have his way? And what does all this portend in terms of a future of shared finances, property, and children? Will I let him do and have whatever he wants purely out of my fear of becoming the woman who doesn't let her guy buy a new guitar because he already has six and that money would be better spent on an armoire to replace the garage shelves currently housing clothes in the bedroom? I don't want to be that woman. In fact, we are where we are because I'm not that woman.

The solution I see is that we need to make an effort to bring into the house new things that are neither his nor mine but ours. The first joint purchase we made was our sushi plates last fall, but there hasn't been much of significance beyond that, mostly because we don't need anything. In fact, we have too much already. When I move in, we'll have two vacuums, two couches, two futons, two keyboards, and two new tvs, and as much as my practical self is willing to give up my stuff when it's clearly inferior, I wonder if I'm setting myself up for something I won't be able to get out of later without it looking like a bait and switch. If I say I'm okay with the severed-foot painting in the kitchen now--consoling myself with the fact that it's only temporary--what happens when I want to put my foot down (har har) about it later? What do I say to "But honey, you used to like it. You used to let me spend all my money on guitars and bikes. You used to be cool."

For now, I guess I will just thank my stars that Simon is incredibly sensitive to these emotions--even if I don't really voice them--and take comfort in the fact that our future will be long and certain and one day we'll be sleeping not in his bed at his place or my bed at my place OR in his bed at our place, but in our bed in our place where we have built something that is undeniably our life.

I am ecstatic that this is the worst of our troubles.