Unless the meatloaf is burned, LAT, an acronym for Living Apart Together in separate residences, is a surefire way to make your marriage last. Clear through dinner, maybe. If you don’t see a person’s face from, say, right after dessert, until you are sipping a cup of latte twelve hours later, your union will be golden. People will envy and admire you for your peace of mind, your emotional stability, your genius with the opposite sex, the fact that you are still in bed at 11am, and that there are cracker crumbs strewn around you and your pillow.
Marriage has been around for a long, long time, until sometime just after the first sexual encounter occurred in 1832. Another encounter would not happen again for more than a hundred years, in 1962, on the steps of Sproul Hall at UC, Berkeley. When older people saw how much fun the younger set was having, they tried to make it illegal without the express approval of the US government.
Occasionally, someone will try to get rid of marriage, and individually, they succeed. A person here and there will not be married, but they are generally curmudgeonly old men, who probably tried it at least once, usually with an American woman. This woman refused to pick up one more pair of underpants, or be told who she should vote for, so she moved out.
They didn’t get divorced, but instead maintained separate residences. Hers may have been in Cleveland, and his in San Antonio, but still. They were getting along for the first time in forty years! Yes, this marriage could be saved!
Married people who live in separate residences is not an unheard of thing. First of all, you are hearing about it here. Secondly, my hubby and I actually do this. Strictly speaking, we have walls that are attached, but the two residences have separate addresses, living rooms, bathrooms, bedrooms, and kitchens. In short, if someone other than he moved into his place, they would have all the privacy guaranteed to them under the Constitution. Unless I steal their mail and read it.
Our living arrangements happened sort of by accident. I say ‘sort of’, because I didn’t load up a U-Haul and then lose control of it in front of the house, crashing through the living room walls. (Although that is a good way to ‘get’ a man, in one way or another). I had sold my house in California, and my guy suggested I move near him. We’d known each other for many years, and I loved the man, so I said yes.
His daughter and her family, and his sister and her family, who both lived in the other domiciles on this compound, which is just like the Kennedy’s, only without the wealth or views of the ocean, had unilaterally decided to vacate the premises, leaving the main house and the little one in back, empty. My son and I moved into the main house, and my hubby stayed in his bachelor pad next door.
Occasionally, he’ll think about moving in here and renting out his little apartment, but I remind him that the dog sleeps on my bed when I decide to sleep in it. I divide the week up so that he gets the lion’s share of me, but my dog gets two days out of the week. She also gets to sleep with us both on Saturday night. He has a smaller bed, and she’s a bed hog. Plus, sometimes he’s up and down many times during the night, so I presumably get more rest when I’m in my own bed. I say presumably, because I’ll use the opportunity to get really degenerate. I read late and watch TV.
We are going to move into one household eventually, and this will require sacrifices on his part to blend our belongings and routines. Alright, alright. I’ll make an effort, too. Its not going to be easy. We are long time bachelors, both of us. I don’t want a garage or closets, so there will be no room for saving things we no longer need.
We’ve been together now for more than eight years, and it appears to be working. When I first moved in, we had a lot of arguments. True to my nature, I stayed mad longer than he did. He did not have to suffer the slings and arrows of a pissed-off woman, but I did not get the satisfaction of totally ignoring him for three days.
I would slam and lock the doors to my house, and we would not have to see each other until we were ready. Genius! I had discovered something that would keep the wheels of civilized society rolling along as smoothly as a banana daiquiri, and the bonds of family stronger than the combined powers of the Justice League.
Some buzz-kill is probably thinking that this was childish behavior, and we weren’t forced ‘to work out our issues’, or ‘resolve our differences’, blah, blah, blah. Go back to your own house, I don’t want to hear it. Most people I know are childish, self-involved dweebs and should all have their own rooms to sulk in for as long as they want, surrounded by their own stuff. So neener, neener.
I’ll talk to you about it when you are ready to see reason.
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