I’ve lived with 1 ¾ women in my lifetime. Technically, I’ve only officially lived with one woman. Meaning we both had our name on the lease, each owned a key and we could come and go as we pleased. Well, she could come and go as she pleased. I could come and go with her permission. That is if I planned to sleep in the bed relative to the couch that evening.
The other ¾ accounts for pretty much every other serious girlfriend I have had and their failed attempts to move in without my permission through fraudulent means of deception wherein they slowly but surely leave so many articles of clothing that they can literally survive living at my place without returning home for days, if not weeks on end. Having accumulated enough of their own clothes in my closet to sustain a small village, they then proceed to “forget” a toothbrush one night and before you know it, I have an official girlfriend / unofficial roommate. For men in similar situations who may be in denial, if your girlfriend has feminine products in your bathroom – whether you realize it or not – yall live together, bro. But, I guess that’s neither here nor there.
The thing about me is I’m kind of a neat freak. This wouldn’t be a big deal if, as I often wish, everyone in the world would just do things my way. Unfortunately, this is rarely the case.
For example, I remember my official live in girlfriend, God bless her heart, use to shed hair like a large poodle. It wasn’t her fault. She did have an impressive mane of hair to tote around. Leftover strands of it would collect around my house as if they were plotting a hostile takeover.
I still remember getting in the shower after her. It looked like a CSI crime scene investigation. As though Chewbacca had entered my shower before me and fought off a fleet of Star Wars Troopers in their ineffective attempt reach my shower drain. Finding her hair strewn violently about still haunts my dreams some nights. Stranger still was the fact that she never bothered to wash her hair remnants down the drain, which is strange considering she had the convenience of running water at her disposal.
My plight didn’t end with her hair. Dishes piled in the kitchen, make up stacked in the bathroom along with an ever expanding voluminous collection of hair products and curling irons whose chords tangled together like a mound of mating snakes. Throughout our home her clothes lay scattered recklessly from room to room. The door of the closet remained open, unable to close, like the mouth of sunning alligator. Yet somehow, her hair always stayed done and her clothes stayed matching; priorities, I guess.
I wondered how something so beautiful could be so content amassed in such anarchy. I quickly found out that pointing this out to her was ineffective. Instead, to maintain my sanity, I found myself stealthily attempting to tidy up behind her. I was like our very own French maid, minus the cute outfit and accent of course.
I haven’t lived with another woman to confirm if this was a unique experience or not. Perhaps it is merely the penalty of love. Accepting that every now and then I will have to clean up after my significant other if I ever plan to use my shower…or sink…or washing machine again. To love and to hold, in sickness and in health, until filth do us part.