People just love to obtain engaged at Christmastime. I imagine this is a result of a mix of factors, from feeling more family-oriented than usual (even though the holidays possess the opposite impact on a lot of us) towards the celebratory atmosphere in particular and increased existence of shiny objects generally. I spent Christmas Eve \”liking\” a whole new host of \”Blankety Blank is engaged to Persony Person\” updates before going to sleep in my childhood bedroom with my new-ish husband.

I went to sleep encompassed by the ghosts of Jonathan Taylor Thomas posters of teenage years past; I awoke remembering that when you are sleeping with a J.T.T. poster inside your bed, it does not steal all of the covers in its sleep and relegate you to definitely a frigid corner of a surface roughly the width of the kayak.

There are some things I do miss about being single, I figured, remembering nights slumbering peacefully alone in a bed piled high with covers, no one kicking or snoring around me. Patrick and that i have upgraded to some king-size bed at home; an investment was worth the savings in whatever divorce attorneys will be charging in 2025. But as I lay there waiting for the Xmas day sunrise, thinking of this year's upcoming crop of weddings and silently cursing the man I really like most on the planet for his God-forsaken stuffy nose and unconscious blanket hoarding, I figured: Cherish some things when you can, newly engaged folks.

Sleeping alone is, for me, one of life's great pleasures. I am a sprawler, the owner of a variety of pillows inside a plethora of shapes and sizes, all with specific sleep-related purposes and seasonal applications. I enjoy cuddle on a couch. I hate to cuddle on a bed. If Patrick and that i did not have our giant bed – we even managed to get a venue on Foursquare, and i am the mayor – we'd probably sleep in separate ones.

I may also do without needing to pick up after myself constantly simply to make another person's daily life generally more tolerable. I stop just short of being personally offended at Patrick's frustration with how I need to be constantly reminded to hang my clothes back up for weeks after a visit to the Laundromat. Dude just loves being able to see dresser tops and many of the floor, the benefit of which escapes me. But putting socks inside a drawer is really a terrible sacrifice I'm prepared to alllow for the man I really like.

I miss taking no one's schedule into consideration besides my very own and, to some degree, my cats', though they stick to quite a predictable sleep-eat-lick-butt-repeat agenda. Now, I must inform someone of my plans to play Sim City and eat ranch dip for eight straight Saturday hours. Newly enfianced people, consider putting caveats for this type of thing in any forthcoming prenuptial agreement.

I'd prefer to believe that my friendships haven't suffered due to my marriage to Patrick, though they're bound to change. There is a feeling of in-it-togetherness that I felt with my buddies like a single person; now, I channel my in-it-togetherness toward my hubby. It's as if I moved from residing in a Hold Steady album to a Springsteen record; but maybe that's just growing older. I miss those massive nights, though.

What I don't miss? Online dating, the shit show I just couldn't seem to quit for more than a couple of months at any given time. What was it that kept drawing me to OK Cupid? Hard to say – could have been the flattering quantity of messages from promising and polite gentlemen asking if I desired to \”fuk on kam 2nite\” or the creative challenge of finding exciting new ways to say \”You appear to be a perfectly nice respectable individual who I simply have no interest in speaking with for yet another second.\”

I like not fretting about getting tested for STDs every few months; casual sex with an exciting number of people has many redeeming qualities, but maybe getting an antibiotic-resistant type of gonorrhea isn't one of these. If ever I grow weary of married sex, Personally i think certain the temptation to stray is going to be tempered in part through the memory of spending entire nights begging Google to tell me once and for all whether that's just an ingrown hair.

I sure don't think back fondly after getting hitting up friends for rides towards the airport. Husbands are morally obligated to get this done (although it was removed from the traditional Christian vows sometime in the 17th century), that is especially convenient in a place like Austin, where flights to anywhere farther compared to next county over inevitably must leave in the crack of dawn or arrive at the taint of night.

And I guess it's plenty nice to be in love and also have a forever-activities-partner and perpetual cheerleader by your side – even when they are a little too by your side, drooling on half your pillow and bogarting the quilt.