Men are always right. Men are thoughtful. Men love to make lists and plan. Men can multitask. Men don’t ever do things that are annoying.
Men always keep a mental note of what’s in the fridge and cupboards so they are never empty. Men do the laundry, hang it up to dry, fold it neatly and put everything away in the correct places. Men are always interested when their other halves are talking to them. Men always do what you ask them to the first time so us women never have to nag. Men never put off until tomorrow what can be done today.
Men don’t mind us watching chick flicks and Sex and the City re-runs. Men don’t mind going shopping and will happily wait patiently while us women try on piles of clothes and underwear.
Men are, put simply, the best.
Cough, splutter if only all that was true the world would be a shiny and happy place.
Any man reading this probably has a big grin on his face, puffing out his chest with pride at some comments he can nod at and say that’s me, or not, but bemused by others. Any woman reading this is probably, more than likely, a little mystified while silently seething, nostrils flaring, a wry and pained smile forming on her face thinking I’ve lost the plot.
I haven’t, men and women; the differences are vast, this I know.
I’m about to embark on cohabiting full time with my boyfriend. I am very excited. No more lugging a bag around between houses and wondering which clothes are in whose house. No more buying two lots of everything when food shopping. No more having to clean two houses. No more having to keep two gardens tidy. No more forking out for two lots of bills. And, of course I’ll get to be with my other half. Yay!
But, on the downside, I will have to contend with all the aforementioned nuances between men and women. So I’m also slightly nervous and here’s why. . .
A heated exchange – At the moment, if there’s any hint of stroppiness (that would be from me) or bad feeling (that would be from me again) there is always the option of me disappearing to the refuge of my home. Not that I have yet, but it’s the knowing that the safe haven is there for me. Stropping off upstairs just doesn’t cut it. It’s not as dramatic and makes me feel like I’m 10 again.
The merging of ‘stuff’ – Our tastes are very similar but I’m fond of knick knacks, I like a house to feel lived in, I want to it to feel like a home not an extended stay at a Travelodge. In short, like all women, I want to make my mark. So discussions began in earnest a while ago on what I would be ‘allowed’ to bring with me. Yes seriously. I felt like I was seven years old and being told I couldn’t take my Sindy cooker on holiday with me. I was crushed. The words ‘boxes’ and ‘storage’ were mooted and my brow started to crinkle as a frown formed and my bottom lip began sticking out further and further. My misery soon turned to a mild form of rage where, in my mind, I was huffing and puffing and having a good old rant about it. Still I’m an adult so behaved like one and have almost finished the almighty task of dejunking my life.
The great TV debate – Now this is a biggie. I like girl’s stuff, he likes boy stuff. I am not partial to an evening with Jeremy Clarkson and his two sidekicks, as he is not partial to an evening of Channing Tatum with his top off. This leads me into the next issue.
Compromise – There has to be lots of it. It can be quite hard at times and create tension in the home camp but it’s one I like. If I’m compromising I feel virtuous. If he’s compromising I feel like I’ve got my own way. Yeeeees. An eyelash flutter of my big baby blues works every time.
Maybe this is just the tip of a Titanic-sized iceberg, but I know deep down the pros outweigh the cons.
Nothing is ever perfect but I can’t wait to come home every night and for us to be together. It’s my dream come true. That is as long as Top Gear’s not on.