“From now on I’m gonna be my own best friend”
August 13, 2013 § 1 Comment
It’s fair to say that you change a bit when in a relationship. You’d be naïve to think that you remain exactly the same person as you were before. I’m not saying you get an entirely new identity, just that you realize who you were wasn’t as set in stone as you originally thought, and that you are much more pliable than you wanted to be.
Prior to meeting my Boyfriend and moving in together, my life consisted of scenarios that many single people (without roommates) will recognize: a meagerly stocked fridge, laundry that goes unfolded for weeks (on an ever growing mound on your couch), and idiosyncratic beauty routines that you would rather prefer nobody ever see (ladies, you know what I’m talking about). When you start sharing your life with someone though, things change: bimonthly Costco trips make it impossible for your freezer to ever have room, a large washer/dryer becomes a prerequisite in finding a place, and you always have to be on alert for surprise bathroom intrusions.
And if you’ve been on your own for long enough, having another human being living with you can really test your patience sometimes. Especially if your significant other has an apparent aversion to throwing away candy wrappers and Q-tips, no matter how close the trashcan is to him, or if he can’t keep pistachio shells out of the shag rug to save his life. Though it’s often tumultuous at first, you learn to become more patient, more tolerable, and more accepting of the fact that there are just quirks you have to get used to, and continue to remind yourself that he too is dealing with your annoying oddities. You let the small things slide. You ease up. You learn to stop complaining about the toilet seat (you can just as easily put that down as he can put it up).
Living with your significant other can reap great, albeit, simple rewards too: you always have someone to yell “YO! I’M OUT OF TOILET PAPER IN HERE!” And before you know it, you’ve found your groove together, one where you spend nights watching American Ninja Warrior, go out on 9pm frozen yogurt runs, and share your chores more or less, evenly. Even when you realize that your life has now become unbelievably domestic, you understand that that’s not such a horrible thing, that there’s comfort in the fact that your feet never have to remain cold in bed ever again. And if your boyfriend also happens to be incredibly old fashioned and chivalrous, you never find yourself lifting the heavy shit ever. You never have to worry about your lackluster driving skills, because he’s always behind the wheel. You realize that your mom was wrong in that you don’t actually have to learn how to cook if your dude does it better than you can.
And soon, that single life you lived for so long becomes nothing but a distant memory. You find it harder and harder to remember a time when you used to do things on your own, for your own.
For this past year or so, Boyfriend has had to travel quite a bit for work, mostly trips to Florida where his partners are located. His Florida visits are never more than a week long, which you would think isn’t too bad, but when you’ve gotten as comfortable (coughlazycough) as I have, that week can feel like the most boring seven days to ever experience.
His most recent trip required a redeye flight, which meant I had to crawl out of bed an hour of the day I rarely see. When I returned home, I crawled back in bed for a couple more hours and spent the rest of my day essentially acting like a total asshole. I walked around in my underwear (although being pantsless at home is the norm for us) and took multiple naps (on the couch, on the floor). I half-watched some shows on Hulu while online window shopping, and ate cereal out of the box like a neanderthal. I tried to read but ended up taking another nap instead. I played an inane amount Candy Crush on my phone. Besides a three-sentence exchange with my sister via text, I didn’t interact with a single person. In fact, I think the only time I actually used my voice was to scream at Nick Cannon on TV, “NO, AMERICA, YOU DO NOT HAVE TALENT.” Before his trip, we had stocked our fridge with groceries, but I felt so unmotivated to cook anything, which resulted in me having a can of ginger ale and a package of dried seaweed for dinner.
At some point in the night, between my first and second Haagen-Dazs bar, I caught a reflection of my sorry ass in the window, and I tried to figure out how I managed to feed and take care of myself before I became a we. What did I use to do on all those nights I spent alone? Didn’t I read? Write? Do anything without turning into a pathetic sloth?
It wasn’t that I had become incapable, but I had become unwilling to take care of myself. I had let Beyoncé down.
Feeling truly disgusted with my state of being, I got up and started cleaning. I washed all the dishes and put away the open boxes of food I had left out throughout the day. I picked up the pants that I had taken off at the entryway when I had come in, which were coiled down so perfectly that you could see carpet through the leg holes. I wiped down countertops, watered the plants, took a shower, and broke down boxes for recycling, all at 2am.
The next morning, I got up particularly early, made myself tea and eggs for breakfast, and sat down at the desk, not the couch, with my computer. I wrapped up some edits for work by the late afternoon, and met with a friend and her dog for a walk. I actually chopped some shit and made dinner. Instead of spending the rest of the night flipping channels, I started and finished an entire book.
Aside from that first day, I actively spent each day forcing myself to do something productive, even if it meant walking to FedEx to drop off a package. As ridiculous as it sounds, I forced myself to remember that I was a perfectly capable human being. I did not cease being one simply because Boyfriend was not there, and his absence did not mean my life had to come to a stand still.
It’s actually quite embarrassing to admit morphing into a total sack of crap simply because I forgot what it was to be alone. It’s just so easy to fall into the routine of togetherness, because you get comfortable. Most of the time, you don’t even realize that it has has happened, because if you had, you wouldn’t have allowed yourself to slack so willingly. And there’s nothing wrong with feeling like you’re part of something – the opposite in fact. But finding yourself with someone else doesn’t mean you have to lose everything you used to be. Having a crutch is nice when it’s necessary, but not if it’s because you don’t want to walk on your own two feet. And just because you don’t want to carry your slack, doesn’t mean someone else has to. It’s unfair, lazy, and frankly, a shitty thing to expect.
Being independent is not a quality exclusive to single folk. You can’t wait for someone to help figure out who you are (that’s called brainwashing), even though it’s more convenient to do so. Your identity is something only you can make happen: you ultimately decide how you want to turn out. You can’t let being in a relationship be the only marker of your personality. Ciphering out who you are is a lifelong battle in which you can never win, but in which you’ll never lose either, as long as you continue to try. We change with the ebbs and flows of life, but at the end of the day, you have to be someone that you can be happy with, not ashamed of.
Being in love is pretty fucking awesome, but that person deserves to have the best of you, not a half-assed version. Because mon chéri, if you don’t love yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?
soopastryheart 
Reading this article, I realized even more that I need a girlfriend.