I had been counting down the days until my Boyfriend and I moved into our first home.  I was tremendously excited about removing him from the poorly lit, dingy hole of a house that he inhabited with two of his fraternity brothers.  I rejoiced in the fact that we would be living together, alone, and in the absolute most precious cottage in Richmond’s Northside.  I reveled at the idea of us starting our lives together as a happy, cohabitating couple, holding hands, talking strolls to Kitchen 64, playing croquet in the backyard…

Then we moved in.

Well, to be perfectly honest- He moved in.  I had a last minute anxiety attack.

You see, ladies, I made the amateur mistake of having him move in his stuff BEFORE me.  This is where I went wrong.  Please learn from this, I wish someone had told me.

He moved in one day while I was away at work.  I returned to our new house furnished solely with the items from his old place.  Shall we run down the belongings? 

Collection of Bob Marley Posters?  Check.
Gigantic oblong poker table?  Check.
FHM, Playboy, and Maxim Magazines?  Check, Check annnnd Check.
Random unfinished painting by Frat Bro?  Check, and hanging proudly in the living room.
Astroturf area rug?  Check.
Bottle of wine shaped like the torso of a Buxom woman?  Ugh… Check.
Box Springs and Mattress?  Check.
… On the Floor?  Check.
Assorment of 30 shot glasses, most of which hail from Ocean City, MD?  Check (who knew?  He’s never even talked about the place)

And last, but certainly not least

The most atrocious couch in the world?  CHECK!

Seriously friends, this couch is awful. 

It’s huge, cumbersome, dirty, and lumpy. 

It’s tattered and the cushions fall off. 

It’s yours free with pick up!  Aw Heck, I’ll even deliver.  Any takers?!

Upon seeing the house, I suffered from what can only be described as temporary insanity.  I didn’t let it show at the moment, as company was over.  I found myself using the relaxation techniques I had learned in a Stress course in college.  After some intense deep breathing, I calmed down.  “It’s okay” I told myself, “You can rearrange everything when he’s at work next week”.  That little mantra got me through the night.

However, the next morning was another story.  When he told me he wanted to take down the wreath I had hung up because, to put it in his words, “I don’t like wreaths.  Never have”, I turned into what I’d imagine Denise Richards would be like when she spars with Charlie Sheen. 

“You don’t like wreaths?!  Well that makes a lot of sense.  Why don’t you like wreaths?” I said, breathing fire and wielding a pitch fork.

“I don’t know.  I just don’t like them.” He said, obviously not sensing that this kind of response was going to lead to impending manslaughter.

“Well that’s how I feel about half of your stuff but it’s still sitting there anyways!  I can’t believe you don’t like wreaths!  Who doesn’t like wreaths?  At least it’s all the way finished, unlike SOME ‘décor’ in this room.”

“You told me you liked that picture!”

“I did-- When it was under a black light, in your dorm room, and I was totally intoxicated.  It was great in that context!  Why haven’t you ever mentioned Ocean City?  I feel like a 28 count shot glass collection from one location would merit some mention of it, even if it was just in passing.  And did you really have to bring Maxims from a half decade ago?  Really?  Britney Spears is on the cover, and it’s not because she’s overdosing, or having her children taken away.  She’s totally sane in that picture- well, maybe not totally sane, but more sane than she is now- that’s how old it is!  Thank god it’s there though, because while I pee, looking at girls with amazing bodies wearing little more than a belt and a bandana makes my day.  Did I mention I hate that couch?! Because I really hate that couch.  I can’t believe this!  How are we going to live together?  You don’t like wreaths!”

He stood there totally dumbfounded.

I left, and spent the day feeling like a total jerk, not to mention a crazy.  I pride myself on being logical, a real thinker.  This explosion of criticism stemmed from being completely terrified of living with a boyfriend (a feeling which I had totally suppressed until the last minute).  While my boyfriend, an amazing communicator, voiced his nervousness about moving in, I had always been the cool head, reassuring him it was going to be fine.  Little did I know I was anxious myself.

I realized I’d been unnecessarily critical.  After all, it’s not like I didn’t know he owned the stuff.  When I envisioned our house, it didn’t include an Xbox 360 or bumper-sticker covered mini-fridges.  In my head I pictured his belongings conveniently vanishing after being placed on Craigslist.  That’s not fair of me.  It may be prettier that way, but certainly not fair.

I apologized for lashing out, and he graciously accepted.  While I was gone he made a point to hang the wreath nicely on our front door, and rolled up the Astroturf rug.  We’ve agreed, from now on, to compromise on our furnishing arrangements.  I think this cohabitation thing might work out well after all.