After seeing my boyfriend for little over a month, it became apparent we’d have to end it. I was finally done with undergrad and he was going to off to a yet-unnamed graduate school. It was horrible. We’d look at each other as if we were in a melodramatic telenovela-I would be crushed at his departure and he’d try to keep a stiff upper lip. These relationships of convenience, the summer flings or your camp boyfriend, all end eventually. You’re leaving! So long, farewell, ciao! If you’re hoping for a quick getaway or saving up the waterworks, these break-ups accomplish the feat without nary an emotion left scathed. Towards the end, the feeling of inevitability becomes inevitable. I was getting itchy.
Unlike the rest of my business school peers, I planned to listlessly wander Europe for a year or two before “settling down” to live the single life in a big city somewhere. But then I got a proposition.
“Catie, how do you feel about living in New York City?”
I’ve never been a fan. Too competitive, too angry, too wet, dreary, expensive, loud and unfriendly for my polished Southern upbringing. I had done the dreary weather thing in college. I stubbornly went bar hopping in heels and halter tops rather than displease the fashion gods and don scarves and hats. After four years of snowdrifts and UGG boots, I wanted the Malibu life. Surf, sand and tans, year round! So I replied,
“Yuck! Anywhere but there!”
“Well…that’s too bad since I got accepted to Columbia and all”.
“Oh. (pause) I could get a job in Manhattan.”
Previous boyfriends have dubbed me a “free spirit”, an “untamable wild child” and a commitmentphobe/serial monogamist. I’d have to say they were right. Instead of gleaning an eating disorder from the many women’s magazines printing today, I built up reserves of self-esteem and confidence by embracing their “you are a fearless, fabulous, amazing woman” message. Who’s got the time to wait around for a guy to call? That is so 1990.
In the weeks leading up to driving my U-haul from Maryland to the Big Apple, I struggled with the idea of reining in my independence. I just turned 21…isn’t this the part where dating gets good?
College dating is supposed to be preparation for post-college dating. With its inevitable breakups, apologies about making out with their frat brother over coffee the next morning, and “what does it all mean” conversations with your sorority sisters, you move on and start dating like a grownup. Except grown-ups don’t seem to be doing so well either.
The U.S. Census published new data recently explaining that not only are marriages dissolving at a 40-50% rate, the marriages that do last tend not to make it past the 25-year mark. Not willing to cut and run at the first sign of a possible flaw in my boyfriend, I am not satisfied with these results.
Bored with nature one weekend in the Adirondacks, I perused through a 1967 LIFE magazine at my boyfriend’s cabin. An old relic of an article documented an emerging trend; “The Arrangement” was a primer on living with, but not being married to, your significant other. The following issue was rife with letters to the editor denouncing the article as yet another example of our decaying moral values, etc. etc.
The decision to live together was a non-decision. Our modern arrangement was out of love but also economics. The sky-high cost of Manhattan living kept us from living the swanky downtown life even with the financial support of our parents. Like all good early adopters, we heard whispers of the up-and-coming areas up north and moved there. Way north, in fact. At 149th & Broadway, “Alto Manhattan” is uncharted territory to most New Yorkers; an uninspiring landscape where it was almost impossible to find “low fat”. Instead, there were chimichurri burgers at 3 AM, frequent $25 cab rides from below Houston Street and enough sounds and smells to keep my curiosity about Latin culture quipped for a good while.
It was understood by our families that we would be living together, without being married, in a strange city, having barely known each other for more than two months. His family, consisting of a Reform Jewish father and Catholic mother, made almost no commotion except an instruction to “try not to hurt our son”. My family, a spiritualistic bunch, bellowed a little but in the end grew supportive of the move. After dating Mr. Emotionally Draining, Mr. Not-Quite-Right and Mr. What-Were-You-Thinking, they chalked all this up to good karma for dealing with these disasters.
A couple of months later, the wrinkles seem to be smoothed out. The scent of the Christmas tree permeates the apartment and the menorah candles flicker while we take our usual places on our leather sectional. We’ve learned behaviors and have the similar peculiar comfort of other couples inhabiting the same space. For sure, we’re not a “mature” relationship; we keep our bills separate, have no children and haven’t accumulated anything but experiences. My last fling flipped my life upside down and transported me to worlds unknown. What would I have done in Europe anyway?
