In May 2016 my girlfriend at the time moved into my apartment in London. Six months later I was so frustrated and unhappy I asked her to leave.
That is the full and triumphant history of my cohabitation with women since my early twenties.
The reason this girl moved in was complicated, but basically it was one of those bullshit scenarios that seem to come up from time to time in urban life where a young woman (or indeed, man) is unable to stay in the place where they currently reside and as a result may have to leave town.
Of course, when you are the boyfriend of such a person, there’s kind of an unspoken expectation that you’ll step in to help because if you don’t . . . then what the fuck?
Unwilling to face up to the what-the-fuckness of the situation, and because I genuinely liked this girl, I suggested she move in with me. Over the next few months we became engulfed in such domestic drabness and tyranny, and I was consumed with such anger and bitterness, that I decided that if I didn’t do something about it I would have effectively have signed my own death warrant.
And yet I am not really an outrageous guy. Generally speaking my hours are conservative. I sit at a keyboard most of the time writing things in silence.
In theory I should have no problem with the domestic life.
In practice though I have enjoyed freedom and autonomy for so long that it proved incredibly difficult for me to cede even a millimetre of these to my poor girlfriend when she moved in.
Sometimes I look at my life in amazement, as one might look at a famous work of art like the Bayeux Tapestry or the Mona Lisa. You almost don’t believe such a thing could exist.
How did I get away with not living with a woman through my entire thirties?
One day the historians will marvel over my magnificent escapology skills.
Today, though, I wonder whether you get to a point when you are too far gone. When the nearest exit is behind you.
My nearest exit from the uncharted waters of extended bachelorhood may well now be behind me. Next weekend will be the anniversary of when my girlfriend moved in two years ago. Had I stuck it out, and continued with her then my life would now doubtless look very different.
But I chose not to.
Instead I chose more of the same—bachelorhood.
But in a sense I chose something new too, since I have never been a bachelor in 2018, under these specific circumstances before.
Being objective, I am sure that the ‘fault’ for the split—if ‘fault’ can really be attributed in such cases—lies roughly equally between me and the girl. But after that experience I am not keen to experiment with cohabitation right now, and being honest it’s difficult to envisage a time when I will (although you never know).
And so I have left another exit behind me. I have shooed away a loving hand outstretched to save me. I have disdained the life boat, choosing instead to sink or swim in the dark ocean alone.
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