KT Walsh
CREATIVE  PRODUCER | WRITER | MEDIA RESEARCHER 

By: KT Walsh | 2012

I'm a person who practices digression, curbing my enthusiasm for random acts of flowers, surprise dinners, or how I think his smile could melt butter in communist Russia during the worst ice storm of the decade. Most women would have tweeted about more. Things were going well, we survived one year. However, we had reached a pinnacle point in our relationship, a shit or get outta my life moment. Many women shriek with delight thinking about their best friend or close neighbor taking this next step, but I had mixed feelings about the merger. We had decided to move in together.

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I freaking enjoy living alone. It's my dishes, my laundry, my dirt, my mess and I'll clean it when I damn well feel like it. I like to surprise myself with how long I can go before I have to break down and grocery shop. You don't really know how long Ramen Noodles last until you've bought them in bulk and haven't gone to store in over a month. I also LOVE going to the bathroom with the door open. It's how I keep my claustrophobia under control. I can keep strange hours and enjoy guilty pleasures like seven hours straight of Dance Moms or dispensing whip cream directly into my mouth without getting caught. Nay-sayers never comment on one’s hummus and Cheez-it consumption when you live by yourself. There are perks, but I began weighing my options.

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Adult sleepovers with my guy had been consecutive for some time. I was living out of a backpack 50% of the time. What is this, band camp? We thought exchanging keys would help, but food started to be a problem after the key swap. I can't keep him in midnight snacks when my fridge is only stocked with condiments.  I digress… if there’s anyone I want banging around half naked in my kitchen in the middle of the night, it’s this guy.

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Of course we’d split things evenly, and were fiscally reasonable with our expectations, this ain’t no Malibu dream house. We made compromises on things we wanted, like staying out of the tsunami zone and having some sort of balcony. Very adult sauce.

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I kept telling people, "I'm not worried" in that high-pitched voice that indicates someone just lied. Truth? I was totally terrified. This was big step, and if it didn’t work out I was going to be crushed. Like I said, butter melting smile. Two things my mother told me to do before marrying anyone: have sex, and live together. Then she told me not to tell my father she said that.

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We already know I've crossed the first one off her list. This second one puts me closer to a white dress and the kick-ass party of death-do-us-part. Or it puts me closer to tears and the break-up diet of my life.

It was time to face facts and fears. 

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Just a week or two later we finally found a place. Yes, he still wants to live with me even after my panic attack in the bank lobby when we went for the deposit. He refrained from rolling his eyes when my hand shook nervously signing the lease. My signature was not only illegible, but looked like the markings of a 3-year-old chicken. And after it was a done deal, he simply smiled every time I stated, "no turning back now." Which was about 56 times, but my count could be off. Either hopelessly in love is a real thing or he might have been biting his tongue so hard he couldn't speak.

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The officialness of it all hit me like a cartoon anvil when coworker asked me about the ordeal the next day, "So you found a place? Congratulations.”

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“Thank you?” I thought the congratulations was absurd. People don’t congratulate you when you have a heterosexual roommate, or a gay plutonic one, or especially if you live with three dudes none of your friends wanted to fuck. It’s unwarranted.

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 “When are you moving?" My coworker pried.

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"I have until the end of the month, but my... my...[uncomfortable pause] roommate? He needs to move out of his place next week."

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“Your roommate? I thought he was your boyfriend? That’s why I said ‘congratulations.’”

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“What? Roommate? Huh? Yeah, that doesn't sound right.”

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We had been together for about a year, he was certainly more than a roomie. For some reason boyfriend sounds juvenile. A boyfriend is someone you ask out on 4th grade recess after you promise him an Oreo. And at that point you are 'going out' but never really go anywhere. Holding hands, maybe, if you've gotten your cootie vaccine.

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A 'boyfriend' is someone you never really discuss with your father, but he knows he's the reason you're tying up the phone line. He's the one you meet at the movies or the mall to spend three blissful hours before your friend's mom picks you up. He's the guy you play tonsil hockey with at a middle school dance.

A boyfriend is someone you let get to second base in the backseat of his minivan parked on a dirt road because your parents won't let a member of the opposite sex in your room. He's the guy who asks you to prom and breaks your heart for the first time. This is not the guy you sign a lease with.

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In college you start 'seeing' people. The guy you 'see' in your dorm when your roommate's passed out after playing power hour with upperclassmen. He's the guy you 'see' because you know he's going to buy you dinner and then spoon after. You're only 'seeing' him because he has a car on campus. You're 'seeing' him and he knows about your crush on the back of that hockey player’s head sitting in front of you in your bio lecture. You 'see' him at the bar, you 'see' him during tailgate, you 'see' him at a house party, and then you 'see' him making out with some sorority girl during Greek Week. These dudes aren't boyfriends.

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Next, you and your bachelor's degree might have a few manfriends as you enter the working world. Manfriends are dudes you sleep with on a regular basis, but aren't marriage material. Everyone's got a number, right? In case you don’t know your number, count all your horizontal mambo partners, OF ALL TIME. The idea is to reuse the numbers you've already counted as to not increase your number during a dry spell when your vibrator just ain't cutting it. Manfriends are useful booty calls. Manfriends don't buy you dinner, but they will almost always buy you a drink. Manfriends are just for fun. But what happens when a manfriend becomes something more?

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Post college courtships are more serious, now you're dating him. The guy you're dating brings you flowers. The guy you're dating texts you at work. The guy you're dating takes you out to various places for planned activities. The guy you're dating might take you away for the weekend, he might call you just to talk, and he'll miss you when you're gone. Then suddenly the guy you're dating turns into a boyfriend, except this time you've given him much more than a sandwich cookie.

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Now that I've dissected this, you see, there is a whole lot of room between the two different meanings of a boyfriend. On top of that, consider the development between boyfriend and fiancé. There is the proposal over which you have little control. This could take years and I don’t need the headache. So we're living together. More than a boyfriend, less than a fiancé, but somehow similar to a... (dare I say) husband? A couple rings and some paperwork, practically.

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Wait! Pull the reins for a sec, we were just trying this to see how we live together. Although the landlord who read us the lease did make it seem like a ritualistic contract and I was wearing white. It's like the marriage dress rehearsal, this living together thing.

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So what is he now? Not my roommate, not my boyfriend. My boymate? Roomfriend? Romantic Roomie? No, once he learns the true depth of my bathroom habits things will be far less romantic. He's my Mister, I guess. And I'm his... his... inmate (sarcasm font). I don't know what I am to him, but this Mister doesn’t get hung up on the labels, and that's probably how it should be.

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No turning back now.