Right after our honeymoon, my wife moved into my apartment. In theory I was in favor of living under the same roof with my new bride; in practice dividing up the living space required extensive negotiations that continue to this day. Part of the problem was the apartment itself.
In terms of roominess, it compared well to a BMW sedan, but lacked the amenities or maneuverability. The bathroom offered a toilet, sink, and tub which had been designed for the munchkins of Oz. The bedroom offered space for a bed or dresser, but not both. The living/dining/entry room had the benefit of being so small it made our thirteen-inch television look like an IMAX screen. The kitchen was adequate so long as you were content to cook a one-pot, one-course meal.
Still, I’d managed to settle in and had found places for my few possessions. Then my beloved moved in … along with all of her stuff. Things I didn’t recognize started turning up in places I didn’t expect.
For example, the medicine cabinet in the bathroom had seemed positively roomy before the wedding. Aside from the shaving and dental supplies, all I needed was a half bottle of Tylenol. All of that got pushed aside in favor of assorted skin creams, hair treatments and the make-up equivalent of the Crayola Big Box o’ Crayons. When I politely asked why she needed eight different (and indistinguishable) shades of red lipstick, my wife pointed out that I was a guy and could be forgiven for asking such a foolish question. It was important, she explained, to have the right shade for every occasion from a state funeral to a casual dinner with friends to being rescued by firefighters in the event that our apartment caught on fire.
“But they’re all red,” I protested.
“Two of them are red,” she said. “The others are rose, cardinal, carmine, cherry, pomegranate, and vermilion.”
They looked red to me, but since I had the space to spare I didn’t press the point.
Nor did I argue when she began moving actual utensils into the kitchen. My bachelor menus typically involved meals from the food group nutritionists call “things you just warm up more than really cook”. This included TV dinners, frozen burritos, toast, boxed macaroni and cheese, and the entire category of “things that come in cans”. All I actually needed was a plate, a fork, a knife, and one moderately intact pan. All I actually owned was a chipped plate, a bent fork, a dull knife and a mostly-intact pan.
My wife was driven by a desire to introduce variety into our diet and brought with her a frightening array of food preparation equipment, some of which appeared to have been inspired by the wicked devices used to wrest confessions out of prisoners in the Tower of London. It wasn’t clear to me if she planned to Julienne the carrots or get them to admit to a plot against the throne.
She cooked amazing meals, though, so I happily ceded her all of the cabinet space she needed. Negotiations started to break down when it came to the sharing space in the bed. As a new husband, I wanted my wife to know that I was deeply committed to fairness and, since I had about fifteen pounds on her, I felt it only fair that I had a proportionately larger share of the bed. She found this argument lacking since we each represented fifty-percent of the people in the marriage and therefore deserved equal shares. I argued strenuously for my position and she graciously offered to let me have the couch in the living room to myself…every night…for the rest of my life.
Did I mention that my wife is a persuasive negotiator?
Another area that turned out to be unnecessarily complicated was the closet. I’m no clothes horse, but I understand the value of a good pair of jeans; jeans for working outdoors, jeans for working indoors, jeans for lounging and watching TV, jeans for going out to the movies, jeans for formal events and jeans to wear when all of the other jeans are in the washing machine. Between my jeans, my one pair of nice slacks, a sports coat that looked nice with jeans, two pairs of sneakers, and dress shoes for when I had to, the closet was mostly full. My bride insisted on bringing all of her clothes — and shoes — into the marriage. Thus began the negotiations.
She proposed moving some of the jeans I wore less often (jeans for wearing to final exams when I felt confident I’d pass) into the dresser so that she’d have some space. I countered that high quality jeans needed to be stored carefully; you don’t just jam them in a drawer the way you would a dress. She was unmoved by that argument and a lot of my jeans found a new home in the dresser and the rest found themselves hanging next to some frilly, girly clothes. If they could have talked, the jeans in my closet probably would have thanked me.
What startled me most was the quantity of shoes she brought with her. My feeling on shoes was that I needed one “go to” pair of relatively new sneakers to keep at the front of the closet and an older pair that served the dual functions of keeping the first pair company and decaying slowly in the back of the closet. My wife had shoes to go with every outfit she owned and a few pairs that she bought in hopes of finding the perfect outfit some day. Several of the pairs were boots, though, so I didn’t argue with her.
Less than two weeks after the wedding, we’d negotiated the disposition of space in our apartment and I’m pleased to say the arrangement held for two years; until we moved and had to start all over again.
2 Comments
07/04/2009 at 13:26
Having moved several times in the course of a nearly 16 year marriage, I understand your plight. Great piece, Kevin.
07/04/2009 at 14:15
Thanks Shane.
As a child (USAF Brat) I moved a lot. Once I married, though, I really settled down. I’m finding that I enjoy being less mobile.