Week 2: How do you hang the toilet paper? (Or, What defines compatibility?)
Sure, “opposites attract” and all that, but what really makes two people compatible?
When I first met the HH, I didn’t ponder such ponderous questions about our relationship. I mean, if I could sit up till 4:30 AM in a smoky jazz bar talking to the guy, did I really need any other proof we were compatible?
To begin with, well, he was entirely different from my ex-husband; that was pretty much all I needed to know to, at the least, give it a good ole college try. (Please keep in mind that “college try” had a different definition back then–in those days, it meant “actually try”).
“Compatibility” can be defined by how well you’re matched on a series of “lifestyle choices and values,” according to Mark Manson. (Considering he also wrote a book called The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, not sure he’s the best resource, but hey).
Other, more credentialed, experts tell us that compatibility is measured by how much you and your beloved have in common in certain areas, such as “the need for companionship, idealism, emotional intensity, spontaneity, libido, nurturance, materialism, extroversion, aestheticism, activity level, subjective well-being, and intellectualism.”
Okay, so let’s say you’re feeling lonely (need for companionship), so you take a spur-of-the-moment cruise to the Caribbean (spontaneity), bringing with you your extensive shoe collection (materialism). While there, you sign up for yoga, pickleball, surf lessons and ballroom dancing classes (activity level) and spend the rest of the time by yourself, reading Faulkner, Freud and Stephen Hawking (introversion, intellectualism) while wearing your Givenchy sunglasses and Chanel bikini (aestheticism).
While on the cruise, you meet up with an accountant who follows a down-to-the-minute schedule for the day (lack of spontaneity), while spending his afternoons sketching the horizon and playing Scrabble (activity level) or consuming cheeseburgers on paper plates and beer in plastic tumblers at the pub (aestheticism). In the afternoon on deck, you catch him laughing raucously with a few other nerdy guys (extroversion) as they meticulously assess every detail of the local soccer (ie football) matches (un-intellectualism).
Given that you’re opposites in virtually every category of the “compatibility” scale, does this mean there’s no chance you’ll hit it off?
Actually, no. No it doesn’t. You see, we haven’t yet touched upon. . . chemistry.
Ah, that elusive “je ne sais quoi”--that mysterious, ineffable quality that draws together two people who might otherwise never glance at each other, even if squished together in a crowded elevator. Chemistry is the property that pulls you toward another like a safety pin to a magnet, like salmon back home to spawn, like Zoey toward a liver treat.
I must say, for The HH and myself, there seemed a decent mix of both chemistry and compatibility from the get-go. I mean, the night we met at a friend’s 40th birthday party, we gabbed nonstop for three hours, interspersed with laughter and lots of flirty glances and arm-touching (never mind that he never called me after that. Another story).
We’re both voracious readers as well as lifelong learners, and have varied interests because of it; we’re both equally happy to attend a party (as long as someone else goes to the trouble of putting it all together) and chit-chat all night or to stay at home and watch The Morning Show on Apple+.
We both love great food and a hearty laugh. Both are dog people (okay, well, he wasn’t a dog person when we met. But it’s not hard to become a dog person once you live with a dog). And we both appreciate kindness, tolerance, generosity, and a variety of other squishy values.
But that’s not to say we’re the same in every way. While the HH loves jazz, it affects me like a nail on a chalkboard. About two years into our relationship, I was afflicted with candida overgrowth and suddenly had to stop drinking alcohol, eating gluten or dairy (plus about 50 other foods)–and he was forced to adapt (don’t worry, it hasn’t stopped him from continuing to enjoy his scotch, wine, pasta, cream sauces and the like).
General chemistry (as opposed to just the physical aspect) can be described as “an intense feeling of connection” or “a feeling of being completely present and connected, with a sense of familiarity that is hard to explain.”
These days those factors still come into play. I laugh more with the HH than anyone. I feel an unconditional acceptance and the ability to be 100% myself with him (both good and bad).
The HH, who believes in fate and karma, has said he thinks we were destined to be with each other. I suppose the energy healer I visited once concurred. He told me that the HH and I had “been together 478 times through the years.” As different people, of course.
Seriously? And yet here we are, still unable to resolve those niggling daily conflicts around household chores, whose turn it is to take the dogs to the vet, or how loud the stereo should be (that last one is obvious. Not as loud as he wants it).
Thinking back, it all became clear on the day we moved in together, about two years after we started dating. I had broken up with my ex-husband six years earlier. The HH was the first relationship I’d had since then. It was time.
I had recently bought a tiny house in the sketchy part of town, an item on my bucket list that took three years to fulfil (the house part, not the neighborhood part). The HH lived in an old Victorian house with three other guys and his lease was coming due, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity.
We decided on a moving date. I was still teaching at the college back then, so we picked a day when I had just one class to teach in the morning, allowing me time to zip back home afterward.
For his part, the HH arranged for movers to arrive mid-morning at the shared house. The plan was to drop off his items at my place, then take the moving van to a nearby storage facility where he’d stored some of his late mother’s furniture we thought we might use.
We assumed I’d get home early enough to welcome the movers during their first run, then wait for them to return with the second batch of possessions from the storage locker.
Luckily, it was one of those autumn days when the air is so sharp it seems to make everything clearer. As I drove up to the house, I noticed an empty driveway and no signs of anyone else. Good, I thought, I can prepare a cup of tea and just relax while I wait for them to arrive.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open. As it swung toward the inside, I was greeted with the sight of dozens of boxes piled high in the hallways, the living room, into the kitchen area. They’d already dropped off all his things and were likely on their way to pick up the other goods from the storage unit.
I grabbed the doorknob just in time to avoid falling on the floor. My knees had given out beneath me and my cheeks drained of all blood. I started hyperventilating as I experienced full-body shakes.
What had I done?!?
No, no, NO. I’d made a horrible mistake! I wasn’t ready for this at all. In fact, my first impulse was to rush to the phone, call a moving company, and get him the hell out of my house.
About 30 minutes later, The HH arrived with the movers and his second set of belongings. He greeted me with his usual smile, kiss and hug. My arms trembled as I attempted to reciprocate. Did he sense the panic in my voice? Did he notice my cadaver-pale visage? If he did, he never let on.
After the additional possessions were deposited in all the empty nooks and crannies, we collapsed on the couch. He put his arm around me.
“This is so great,” he said. “I’m really happy to be here.” At least I’d stopped panting by then. I took a deep breath.
“Me too,” I managed to squeak out.
Turns out, I wasn’t quite as “over” the trauma of my marriage breakup as I’d thought. More than likely, I should never have agreed to move in together.
Looking back, I realize, I didn’t even attempt to soften the transition for the poor guy during those early days. On the other hand, The HH made it easy.
No, seriously. EASY.
Do you prefer to hang the toilet paper coming from under or over? “Doesn’t matter to me–whatever you like better.”
How about putting this painting over this bureau here? “Sure, looks good.”
Which side of the bed do you like better? “Honestly, don’t care. I’m good either way.”
Toilet seat? Never an issue. Didn’t even need to ask.
Within a day or two, I felt as if we’d been living together forever. I could barely remember living alone. Our lives seemed to meld so seamlessly that it was, frankly, a bit weird. We never fought about any of the usual things. The HH was just so darned easygoing.
Is that true compatibility? No idea. But here we are, still together, so I guess it’s something.
As to his preternaturally calm, laid-back nature? Yes, even after 27 years, he’s still consistently like that.
In fact, he’s like that all the time. I mean ALL the time. EVERY DAMN DAY. Like, to the point that sometimes, it makes me want to grab his hair and just shake him up and down and scream at the top of my lungs: “For once, can’t you just GET UPSET ABOUT SOMETHING?!! What are you, an automaton? Show some emotion, for God’s sake!”
As you might have guessed, that totally chill, easygoing-no-matter-what-the-situation quality has become a wee point of irritation over time. Dare I say, it annoys me to no end?
I guess there’s a reason psychologists tell us that “Men and women frequently describe their partners as both “the love of my life” and “one of the most annoying people I know.” Because “the trait that initially attracts you often become their most irksome feature.”
It seems that true compatibility also means adapting, growing, accepting and tolerating each other, too. Even all the annoying bits.
Are we there yet? Well, can I get back to you in another 27 years and let you know?
I think we ought not care about most things that we think annoy us. Largely trivial. We should care more about what love and enjoy. That will crowd out the other stuff. "I just love it when you play that classical music..." "I really enjoy meatloaf night." "I love it when you put the trash out the night before, it is a load off my mind."
Great story. I really enjoyed it.