My Life. It all began quite unceremoniously, yet profoundly. A man moved into my home. In most stories, it’s the woman who packs her bags and joins her beloved, but in my case….
I had a perfectly good, established abode that I was quite fond of, and frankly, I had no intention of relocating. So, he came to me.
My Life, Peculiarities of Coexistence.
Now, there’s nothing quite as perplexing in my world, or my backyard for that matter, as the peculiar habits of a man.
I can’t speak for the surprising capabilities of this species in general, but my particular specimen is endowed with some truly remarkable behavioral gems.
A vivid illustration arrived with the first morning light: the toilet seat was up. This small, yet significant, detail signaled the dawn of a new era in my life.
Despite my initial skepticism, “they’re so finicky, after all!”, he was here to stay.
The Unspoken Rules of Our New Life.
Right from the start, there were… proclamations. He declared, quite adamantly, that if we were to live together, using condoms was “simply inhumane.”
He neglected, of course, to specify exactly who this inhumane act would be against. Thus, the complexities of cohabitation began to unfold, presenting me with a variety of new scenarios.
It seemed my man was solely interested in himself. This did not sit well with me. I accused him of egoism and carelessness. His response? A suggestion that I purchase a vibrator.
I reminded him that we were living in the age of AIDS. He retorted that he wasn’t “that kind” of person. I just twirled a finger at my temple.
One day, he packed his ties into a suitcase. I offered a wry smile. He slammed the door. I dyed my hair. Then, he unlocked the door with his own key.
“I barely made it before the pharmacy closed. Here,” he said, handing me a small package. “Were you red just now?” he asked. And so, it truly began!
A Glimpse into Our Shared Life.
We settled into living together. Coming home in the evenings, I no longer flinched at the sight of lights on in the windows. I stopped saying, “You’ve got the wrong number,” when someone on the phone uttered his name.
Beyond all that, my pillow began to smell of his cologne. At night, my beloved snored, pulled the blanket to his side and then the blanket would fall to the floor.
Neither for himself nor for others, it seemed.
In the bathroom, he’d read “Auto Bild” and call out through the crack in the door, “Paper!” What was I to do? I’d retort with classic fury: “Rip out the first page. And I don’t want to see that stupid car magazine in my house again!”
At gatherings, he’d quote Kant.
Every day, he’d step on my cat’s tail, claiming it was accidental. He tried to teach me how to navigate by the stars. And would you believe it? For some inexplicable reason, he gifted me an inflatable rubber boat.
He’d wake me at night with kisses, splash toothpaste all over the bathroom mirror, and in winter, he’d bring me strawberries. In short, he was irresistible.
The Arrival of Music and Muscles.
With him, my home gained a music center and dumbbells. The music played from morning till night. The dumbbells, however, lay idle under the bed.
Every time I vacuumed the carpet, I had to shove them from one corner to another. Guests invariably tripped over them. My neighbor commented that those “iron weights” ruined the aesthetic of the living room. Unable to bear it any longer, I suggested moving them to the pantry.
My beloved flared up in anger, reminding me that a sound mind resides only in a sound body. And it turned out he had already spotted a barbell at a sports store.
“Muscles must be trained,” he declared. On the bright side, I always had shaving cream within reach.
And most importantly, I could now fully participate in my friends’ “But yesterday, my man…” conversations:
a) played computer games until morning,
b) spent the whole day under the car,
c) devoured a week’s supply of cutlets,
d) broke a cup and changed a burnt-out light bulb,
e) smoked in the toilet again,
f) said that TV series dull the mind,
g) watched boxing all evening,
h) hid my phone book,
i) is a jerk and a bloodsucker.
In short, living with a man brought me a heap of revelations. Some pleasant, some not so much, and some I simply couldn’t fathom with male logic.
Revelations of Coexistence.
The first revelation: He’s mine. Well, that’s what I convinced myself of, but who truly knows!
The second, and highly relevant, revelation: He’s always hungry, and he eats a lot, sometimes even in the middle of the night! Coffee and a mandarin for breakfast did not satisfy him.
My home began to house products I detested: butter, bacon, sugar, schnapps, pasta. Mayonnaise’s popularity soared to the heavens. I started paying attention to culinary recipes in women’s magazines, wanting to present myself as an irresistible chef in his gastronomic imagination.
Out of nowhere, the eternal question “What to make for dinner?” began to plague me.
This struck me more profoundly than “to be or not to be” or the yearning for peaceful rest in a comfortable chair in front of the tiresome television. I fumed with anger. I was constantly baking, boiling, grating, and tasting.
I gained three kilograms. As I mentioned, my beloved was always ready to eat something. His favorite phrase was: “Do we have anything tasty?” It was normal for him to stare into the refrigerator for 10 minutes after lunch; I often wanted to kick him then, and hard.
I dreamed of products appearing on supermarket shelves with the label: “Men’s food. 10 kg.” Buy it, and your day is free. Fantastic dreams, because subconsciously, I submitted to his culinary whims.
The Mystery of the Missing Socks.
Another curious habit of his? He hid his socks. I hoped not from me. No, the fact that he wore them was, of course, no secret. He didn’t wear sandals or walk barefoot in front of me.
He utilized the latest achievements of textile industry civilization, but upon returning from work, he would first find a quiet spot and there, like a little hamster, having first rolled them into a small ball, he would hide his socks. No amount of persuasion could convince these “evidence” to make it at least to the bathroom.
Health Concerns and Manly Advice.
He would write his will every time he had a toothache or a runny nose. He’d moan, “ugh” and whine like a wounded bison in its final hours. At the mere mention of the word “polyclinic,” he’d have choking fits and appeal to my mercy, begging me to finish him off just to escape inhumane torment.
Holding my hand, he nobly advised me, oh, to repaint the old Opel before selling it. Like a true man, holding back tears before death, he parted with things so dear to his heart: music CDs, his mobile phone, and the “Sports” newspaper.
The Paradox of Silence.
He possessed the ability to sit for an entire evening, staring at the TV screen without uttering a single word. If left to his own devices, this man, who knew two languages and had a higher education, would restrict communication with me to three phrases:
a) “Good morning, darling,”
b) “What’s for dinner, dear?”
c) “Come here…”
To be fair, his conversations with acquaintances weren’t particularly eloquent either. His relationship with his best friend was based on watching football games together and spouting impressive commentary:
“Pass, pass, I said!”
“What a scumbag.”
“Janis, hand me a beer…”
Despite his ability to remain silent for days, he could not stand silence. I still haven’t managed to understand this paradox. Not only did he touch the music center more often than me, he never tore himself away from the television, flipping channels at lightning speed.
From beginning to end, my darling only watched news and sports broadcasts. All the rest of the time, he pressed the remote. The images on the screen flickered like a wild kaleidoscope.
It made my head spin. And God forbid you accidentally stood in the line of sight between him and the television. An immediate, sharp, diplomatic demarche followed: “Move away from the screen!”
He jealously guarded his territory. His possessions included:
a) his place at the table,
b) his favorite chair.
Even guests were not allowed to sit on his kitchen stool if they accidentally entered the kitchen. Yes, the poor cat would shoot out of the soft armchair like a bullet, just hearing his familiar heavy footsteps.
Respecting Boundaries.
I did not cross his boundaries. My feminine intuition told me it was best not to covet the man’s throne, his sacred mug, and his majestic slippers. On the other hand, I could hide the detested dumbbells or even sell them for scrap metal my dear athlete would hardly notice the loss of valuable property.
Surveillance and Control.
“Who were you talking to on the phone?”
“Who’s that bespectacled guy in the photo?”
“Where were you from four to five?”
“Where did you get these earrings?”
My answers: to a friend; my brother; at the hairdresser; you gave them to me.
FACT:
I could no longer spend hours lounging in aromatic baths. My ninety-kilogram bunny would try to enter the room at all costs. Sometimes he urgently needed his toothbrush.
Other times, he had an acute need to inspect the faucet that had been dripping for two months. Then he’d be curious if he would fit in the same bathtub with me and how much water Archimedes’ principle would displace.
Then he would suddenly feel sad being alone and would fidget by the door, knocking on my conscience: “I suffer from a lack of contact!”
However, as soon as I left, the “suffering” individual immediately returned to his chair. “Hey, what about Archimedes’ principle?” I asked. “I’ll take a shower,” my beloved retorted, burying his nose in the newspaper.
The Surprise of the Growing Beard.
He’d always had a beard, of course, even before we started living together. But before, he used to come to our dates clean-shaven. Now, I saw him almost twenty-four hours a day. If you must know, my face started to peel. I think you understand why!
The Amnesia of Important Dates.
He completely forgot our important dates! Amnesia! Selective memory loss? He remembered the storming of the Bastille, the day his car passed its technical inspection, the day he received his first traffic ticket.
But my birthday simply couldn’t stick in either of his two hemispheres. Although, I think he would even miss New Year’s if it weren’t for the general buzz in the mass media. “Grandmas with Christmas trees have appeared on the streets. Time to buy champagne,” he would profoundly conclude.
The Terribly Impractical Man.
He couldn’t manage our budget. Going out for groceries, he’d return with five bottles of beer, a bag of chips, and ice cream. He was too shy to take change.
He couldn’t haggle at the market. He never made a shopping list and was surprised that there were products on sale. He bought everything the market women pushed on him. And once, instead of potatoes, he brought roses. I just sighed but said nothing.
“I love you,” he said, handing me the flowers. How could I scold him then?
The Ultimate Revelation: He Loves Me!
Ultimately, living with a man is like a game of chess. A constant competition with unwritten, unclear rules.
“That’s not how the knight moves.”
“Silly… how does it move, then?”
“Two squares forward, one to the side.”
“Let the neighbor move like that. I’ll move like this…”
“Since when are those the rules?”
“Since last minute…”
“I said so!”
“Go ahead, my dear…”
This journey of cohabitation, with all its delightful absurdities and unexpected turns, has been a profound lesson in understanding, compromise, and the beautiful chaos that comes with truly sharing your life with another person.
While some days are a bewildering game of chess, others are simply filled with the quiet joy of a shared home and the unexpected beauty of a single rose.
Good day!
All men are carrion birds and egoists… FUCK!