Millennial Houseplant Co-Parenting: A Love Story
After living in the same house for four years — with my own bathroom, my own space, my own carefully crafted reality TV watching schedule (sup Below Deck Mediterranean), and the accumulated dust and beer stick from countless house parties past — I’ve forgone the ritual and stagnancy of comfort to move in with the boyf in a new and exciting adventure I like to call “Millennial Houseplant Co-Parenting: A Love Story.”
In the two and a half years since we’ve been together, I’ve seen an enormous amount of change in myself and in our relationship — mostly for the better. We openly communicate, I’ve gone off an emotionally taxing hormonal birth control, we’ve gained new experiences through travel and daring butt plug exploits, and we both see and support each other in the quest to ~*~live our best lives~*~. The 12 succulents I’ve bought (and 3 I’ve managed to kill) in this specific time frame are neither here nor there. Sure, shit’s been hard to navigate, but that all seems to melt away when you’re lying in bed, post-fuck on your 3rd episode of Seinfeld, cuddling next to the person who makes you stress-relief tea every morning before work. Thanks boo.
I promised myself that I wouldn’t make cheesy plant metaphors about moving in, but alas — the seed of my impending domesticity has germinated (fuck it). It’s crazy because I’ve always moved warily through relationships. Or rather, I’ve always had the space to neurotically question every single step of like/lust/love from the solitude of my full-size bed. Do they feel the same way as I do? How can I express my slightly irrational woes without coming across as ridiculous? Why is their dick not responding to my tongue thrust like it did last week? Why am I so sad for absolutely no fucking reason? My shit has been, and ultimately will be, my own shit to wade through. But when you willingly sign up to share a bed and make house with a lover, there’s nowhere to hide your self-doubt and insecurity. You’re forced to come to terms with the stink that’s been festering. Poo-Pourri helps, but there ain’t no amount of lavender essential oil that can mask the bullshit of pretending to be fine.
For every hanging pothos in a $3.99 macramé plant holder, is the realization that in order to grow, in order to flourish personally and in the relationship, you’ve gotta find that fucking light girlfriend. Thanks for the tip, Tyra! Also — who knew my almost decade of watching ANTM would give me the self-help I needed in order to function in a healthy, adult relationship? LOL JK, I’m about to start a very intensive series of therapy sessions, but I like to think Tyra had something to do with it.
Moving on from a past life and version of yourself is a tricky bitch — especially when you’ve grown accustomed to eating dinner in bed and only sometimes cleaning up the spills (shouts out to the soup massacre of 2015). But moving on and into a new space with a partner who recognizes faults and insecurity as an opportunity to grow and thrive is the romantic-ass-shit that makes my heart swell. People may not always sit at the table or give themselves the props they deserve or stop overanalyzing why Hannah’s so disapproving of her 2nd stew on season three of BDM (why tho?), but as long as we keep watering — lol sorry — the seeds, it’s going to be okay.
And for fuck’s sake — keep that shit in the south-facing window.
