Kate Zambreno

Nothing dooms a relationship as dead on arrival more than living together too soon.

A few months into dating bliss, those three little words always seem to slip through the lips too soon--those three little words that come stumbling out after those other three little words--Let's Move In. Why does the decision at the time appear measured, mature, mathematical, even? Well, I'm spending all my time at your place, I barely have time to rush across town to change before work, and we're basically living together, anyway. Right?

Wrong. We're talking dead couple walking when your boyfriend or girlfriend or significant other or whatever becomes The Roommate before they've really had the chance to settle into the role of boyfriend or girlfriend or significant other or whatever. Like the first time you fight over who buys the toilet paper next, or when both of you have become so lazy you're just using paper towels instead of toilet paper and then there's no more paper towels left. Believe me, I know. My affairs have fallen victim to premature cohabitation twice over.

There was the boy I dated for the entirety of spring quarter in college before shacking up with that summer, The Frat Boy Artist. At first living in sin was entirely romantic. We were so broke we ate salsa out of jars and drank Mountain Dew straight out of the bottle. We made love on our futon, our sole piece of furniture. I would sit on the porch of our dilapidated apartment building and read Anais Nin while waiting for him to return. But by the time the leaves started pirouetting to the ground come autumn, one of the walls had a stain on it from a glass of red Kool-Aid thrown during some domestic dispute and he had moved into the city and began dating The Girl with the Perma Tan and Ice Skater Name. He got the futon.

Then there was my last serious boyfriend, The Boy I Was Going To Have Comely Children With. Basically, neither of us could afford to live alone and I was sick of the trek up north to his place. So we signed the lease on the top floor of a three-flat in Ukrainian Village after dating for six months. Six months later we had broken up, but I stayed there for an additional two months--otherwise known as The Period of Pure Masochism--while saving up to move into a studio in Lincoln Square.

Never again will I play house too soon. Regardless of how head over heels I may be, I will never again share signatures on a lease with someone I've just started to share a bed with. A room of one's own? Virginia Woolf had it so right on.

(2003-07-30)

Also by Kate Zambreno

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Tip of the Week
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It's ladies' night
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Tip of the Week
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Tip of the Week
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