moving in: how soon is too soon?

Over the past few months my life in Melbourne has really started coming together; the city lifestyle is great, I’ve been granted a new and challenging job and my writing has gained a pleasing momentum. As well as all this and perhaps most significant to my newfound and apparently unwavering state of happiness, I’ve met a boy. I don’t typically like to write about my romantic life; I don’t want to bore you with the soppy details. Suffice to say that he is awesome and I am entirely smitten. And that brings me to the crux of this week’s post.

Recently this fellow’s housemate got a new job and is therefore leaving the place they share for something on the other side of the city. As a result, my partner has to find a new house mate or move into a place that’s more affordable. With the prospect of moving on the cards, the notion of finding a place together has presented itself much earlier in our relationship than it otherwise may have done. At first the comment entered the conversation very much as a throw away, proffered as an idle musing. But once spoken, the thought immediately began demanding more attention. So now I’m faced with a complex and entirely tricky dilemma: how soon is too soon to move in?

It’s irrefutable that the dynamic of a relationship is unavoidably affected by moving in with one another, but this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I suppose my concern is whether moving in prematurely can doom an otherwise hopeful relationship.

I have so many conflicting thoughts on this issue. On the one hand, I feel that if a relationship is good, it surely can’t be ruined or dependent on living arrangements. Also, if you like someone’s company, you owe it to yourselves to seize the day; life is short, after all. But on the other hand I wonder if the process of courtship and dating can be disrupted by the reality of domesticity, destroying a naturally blossoming love affair irredeemably.

Personally, I know I like this boy. A lot. And I am afraid of us inadvertently destroying something wonderful in our eagerness to be close to one another. I guess I’m worried that if we live together, he might grow tired of my company. Also, I want to be sure we aren’t leaping into such a big move based on the benefits of financial convenience. In this matter as in all matters, I am entirely and always on the side of love.

 

What do you guys think? Is there such a thing as too soon to move in? Have you ever prematurely moved in with someone and do you feel it destroyed your relationship? Or have you made this crazy call and lived with no regrets?

Let me know what you think; on this issue as with many, my mind is a mess bomb.

 

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what’s your number?

No one here needs reminding that life’s not a fairy tale; it’s a complicated, messy business. So unless your situation is altogether unique, chances are you’ve both enjoyed and endured a number of romantic relationships in your time.

According to a recent American study, the median number of sexual partners for a man in his life time is seven. For a woman, the median is four. Of course, this research included no data to illustrate the benefits gained from each relationship and the varied ways in which they enriched the lives of the participants; those would be things near impossible to quantify.

I think it is important to acknowledge that when it comes to love, it’s not the number with whom we’ve shared it that’s important but rather the nature of the beast; the way it inflates us, making us daring, eager, energised. Such is its potency and poignancy that even after a relationship has ended an echo of that former lover remains somewhere within our selves ever onward.

When I was younger, I naively believed that the number of sexual partners a person inadvertently accumulated was important; that it somehow reflected something about a person. My ignorance had me thinking that those with a larger number were careless. I thought love was special, and that by bandying it about they were lessening its value. Needless to say, I was missing the point.

As I matured and began accumulating the battle scars of life, I grew to recognise that the gradual accumulation of lovers is something we can’t always control. There is very little one can do about a relationship ending and furthermore, as ceaseless pursuers of the sublime, we’d be foolish to turn new love away when, bright eyed and bumbling, he finally comes calling.

If we could choose to meet our other the first time around (assuming there is such a one) I suppose there’d be many of us who would. For myself I’m not so sure. Because while the notion of feeling settled and at home with another is entirely appealing, the experiences I’ve been granted through my interactions with previous partners (desirable and otherwise) have stitched for me a vivid patchwork of a past.

For this reason, rather than pointlessly attempting to minimise our number of romantic experiences, we need simply to see the importance of carefully selecting partners we’d be happy to see woven into our personal history. After all, while there’s a chance there’ll come a day that our partners will leave us, our past never will.

Lovers are parasites; every one you take claims and keeps some many tiny parts of you. Likewise, when the time comes that you shake them off, wandering alone into the blue, you will have collected some of their colours, placing them among your pieces for the rest of your days. An eternal legacy of lovers lost.

 

This road can be rough but when you choose the scenic route there are so many wonderful things to see. Life is short and sights are all the more glorious when you’ve someone with whom to admire them. So go ahead and ask her: what’s your number?

 

‘Cause you can just never know; maybe the next one will be for the keeping.

 

What legacies have your lovers left with you?

Do you regret past partners, or see each as representing a chapter of your story?

 

facebook: give me my friends back

friend

1. A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.

2. A person with whom one is allied in a struggle or cause.

3. One who supports and sympathizes.

4. A contact associated with a social networking website.

 

I’ve started to worry that the term friendship is losing its meaning. In light of the above definition, society’s evolving understanding of the word certainly raises a few concerns. Undeniably, what it means to be a friend is slowly being compromised, so that the phrase is no longer reserved for those with whom we feel strong bonds and meaningful connections. Indeed, when considered as a verb (I’ll friend you on Facebook), the value of friendship depreciates and the benefits of being and having friends are significantly weakened.

According to a study by Professor Robin Dunbar, an individual can connect with a maximum of one hundred and fifty people. Of those, the ones with whom we enjoy active friendships are fewer still. As reported by extensive studies, maintaining genuine friendship depends primarily on actually doing stuff together. It’s been established that, with the exception of a very few close and long term relationships, if you don’t physically interact with a pal within a six month period, they will become a distant friend, and from this point it’s only a matter of time before they gradually become nothing more than a person you once knew. This is because friendship is fostered and concreted through three acts: watching the way in which others respond to what you say, the sound of shared laughter, and physical contact.

After reading Professor Dunbar’s study, I thought about the ways in which I conduct my friendships. To my shame, I recognised that in most scenarios, I am not an active friend. Generally I wait for my friends to phone me for a chat, invite me for dinner, arrive on my doorstep for a walk. In a moment of dawning it hit me that if I want to keep my friends, especially now that I’ve moved away, I’m going to have to make an effort to maintain those relationships. Sadly, due to a bad track record, I have many mates who are very barely hanging on to our tattered ties.

This negligence did not happen on its own. My becoming a lazy friend directly correlates with the rise of social networking. When I signed up for Facebook, seeing friends’ statuses and pictures in my newsfeed created for me the illusion of being connected to them. I truly believed that I was interacting when in actual fact, Facebook was enabling me to be a voyeur of lives with which I was growing increasingly uninvolved. In next to no time I developed the habit of writing on their wall when I was thinking about them, rather than organising for us to spend quality time together. Meanwhile, I was growing more and more isolated. I’m sure I can speak for many when I say that, thanks to social media, in the space of a few years I devolved from a kid who would fluidly reach for the landline when I wanted to contact someone, into an anxious creature who’s more comfortable sitting at my pc and offering throwaway lines to the inter webs than pursuing face to face contact.

This revelation goes a long way in explaining why I’ve been feeling lonely of late; I have friends, but I’m not availing myself of their services. So the other night when I began feeling a shade of blue, I did something I rarely do; I phoned a couple of my mates from home. You know what? Suddenly I felt loads better. What’s more, I didn’t feel the need to write an arbitrary and obstructive status on Facebook alluding to my state of melancholy. For the first time in a long while I let my friends help to fix me. The effect was instant and two fold; I felt better in myself and closer to the darling people who had happily picked me up.

So I’ve made myself a promise; I am going to be a better friend. I am going to use my voice, rather than social media, when I feel like speaking with my buddies. I am going to play an active role, so as to make my friendships more meaningful. Because my mates are excellent. And I intend to keep them.

 

Have you noticed social media affecting your friendships? What do you do to keep it real when it’s so simple to be passive?

 

failed intentions

The weekend after I turned sixteen, my mother showed up. Sure, she’d missed the big day, but then we never did dwell much on ceremony and anyhow, until then she’d overlooked every scarring ricochet in my skewed trajectory towards womanhood. Without her along to show me how, I’d been wearing my new found femininity as if it were two sizes too big; shuffling along in a flush of feigned flippancy.

So after twenty two months silent, I was surprised and secretly pleased to know that she’d remembered without prompting the day, sixteen years earlier, when I’d been cut from her stomach and lain, blue and bawling, on her naked breast; the first of three rude shocks to be placed there. This was our anniversary. And she had come.

After sharing our space for a few days, we understood that she’d soon be gone. Then on the third night, she pulled me aside. Following her into my bedroom, we sat beside one another on a sagging foam mattress while she rifled awkwardly through her bag, uncovering a book filled with poetry and proffering it to me.

For the briefest of moments, I caught my mother peering tentatively from behind a shield of false confidence to observe how her toughened daughter would respond. Bewildered, my guardedness fell away, making space for recognition at the sight of her poorly painted mask, as if catching a shaky reflection in a tainted pane of glass.

She stared at the empty palms lying in her lap. I looked at the book. Letting it fall open I found the words she’d inscribed on the inside cover.

Like mist in the morning you came to me, showering me with love.

And I took it all in; as does the grass.

Clearing her throat she took my hand, and held it like a resignation; light and loose and absent. A ticket for a ship that’d long since sailed. She said nothing. The following day she was gone.

For my sixteenth birthday my mother gave me poetry. But despite countless hours cradling that book of words, I’ve not had the heart to page past the naked lines she penned; an exposed underbelly of romantic sentiment.

A silent revelation of my mother’s best intentions.