Living with My Boyfriend All But Guaranteed That We Will Never Get Married

No one falls in love with their cellmate.
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Publish date:
September 12, 2016
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Tags:
boyfriends, cohabitation, infidelity, apartments

It was logical that the next step in our relationship would be marriage. We laughed at the same jokes, we're both Jewish, had similar family values, loved being creative together, and cared for our dog Kermit like a daughter. I was tired of the dating scene. I couldn't wait to delete my profiles on Match.com, JDate, and eHarmony. He was 43; I was 28. He said he was in love with me and that I was the most amazing person he'd ever met.

This is all before we moved in together.

I should have just left it at that. The relationship was perfect. I should've just stayed living with the lovely woman I found on Craigslist. She was in her 70s and hoarded newspapers. If I had stayed living with her, I truly believe I would be married right now. But instead, I made a huge mistake. I moved in with my boyfriend, Benjy, after a month and a half of dating. Five years later, I've packed up and moved out.

I'm not mad. It wasn't a particular argument or thing that has been said or done. We're both exhausted. We've lived together for five years in an apartment that was 300 square feet. No one falls in love with their cellmate. Nobody's attracted to someone they've seen every single disgusting detail of — every sneeze, every burp, every pimple, every Q-tip of earwax, and worse.

The mistake of moving in too soon cost us dearly. I believe that because of my poor planning and overall cheapness, we will never get married.

I could see the signs a few months into our cohabitation. He would bring up other women, drop the good ol' threesome idea, flirt with the dog walker, and say that monogamy "wasn't his thing." He had never said that before. He was acting like he was single.

All of a sudden, when he had me captive in apartment 5C, I was much less attractive to him. In his eyes, before 5C, I was Beyoncé; after 5C, I was Beyoncé…but with a beard, a mustache, pimples, and diarrhea.

What is it about moving in together that disgusted him so much about me? Was the lighting bad? Did he see hairs on places he didn't like? Smell farts? Hear bad singing? Get tired of my stupid jokes? Was I boring to talk to? (I think after five years, there's not much to say anyway.) Too much of anything is never good. Think about your favorite things. If you had 300 pizzas, you'd want to get a restraining order against anyone Italian.

One year on my birthday, Benjy was taking a run, and I decided shortly after that I would run with him. So I jogged around the neighborhood to find him. When I did, I saw what appeared to be Benjy chasing around a sexy woman who was wearing a tight white dress. She would turn right, he would turn right; she would turn left, he would turn left; she stopped, he stopped. Then I went out and bought a similar dress, and he didn't even notice. I completely flipped out over this and, as a result, was labeled "crazy" (a title he has given me before).

I don't blame him for why we fell apart. He would have crushes on women who were way more interesting than me. He would email with different women, hide in the bathroom whispering on his phone, collect nude pictures. I figured out that after four years, any woman that wasn't living in the same apartment as him was way more interesting than me. They were happy to oblige because not only was Benjy funny and sweet, he was also a celebrity. (I do not recommend dating celebrities for this very reason.)

I write about this rather calmly, but really, I'm sad. I'm sad I couldn't make it work. We seemed to be a good fit for so many reasons. I never had met a guy as playful and fun as Benjy. He had everything I wanted in a husband. He liked walking around the city, going to Central Park, painting ceramics; he would actually call me back, which, before this relationship, was uncommon. It's unfortunate that too many resentments overshadowed the fun we once had.

It's easy to break up when there's cheating, screaming, etc. It's almost fun to break up when the guy is a jerk, a total bum, or voting for Donald Trump. But the worst is when you have to break up with an awesome person for a simple, stupid reason like square footage. I often wondered how many square feet apart it would take to make him think I was sexy again.

Benjy is a great, smart, handsome, interesting guy. He's funny and he's unique. He has blue eyes and a great smile. The problem is that he just got turned off by me because he saw too much of me. We didn't have sex anymore. There was no romance, no passion. Superficial as it may seem, it's hard to have sex when you've heard each other poop.

In my fantasy, he'll call me soon and take me on a romantic date. There will be candlelight and classical music playing. We'll sit outside in the middle of a beautiful garden, there will be a cool breeze and stars in the sky. He'll look up from his plate, and there will be a bunch of naked cheerleaders screaming "Benjy! Benjy! Have sex with us!" But he won't notice, 'cause he'll be with me.