Today, a friend and I met for lunch. I hadn’t seen her since she married — again.
“Where are y’all living, now?” I ask, sipping my tea.
“We live in a duplex.”
“Oh? How do you get along with the neighbor?”
“Fine,” she said, smiling drolly. “He’s my neighbor.
“Whoa!” I catch the tea spewing from my nose. “Gotta wrap my head around this. You’re saying that you…and your husband….”.
” We live in a duplex,” she says, with a nod. “He lives in A. I, in B.”
“So,” I asked, in my best Dr. Phil impression. “How’s that working out for you?”
She wiggles her eyebrows. The naughty-girl from within lights up.
I lean back and shake my head.
No way could my man talk me into that. To me, marriage equals one husband, one wife, one roof.
“So, where do you sleep? On your side? Or his?”
“His. Mine. Depends.”
She leans forward. “All right, here’s the deal. He and I love each other, right? But our differences could be game-changers. I’ve gotta have my fur-baby; he’s allergic to dogs. If we buy a duplex and each take our half, I get to keep my dog where I want.”
“And you’re living in a duplex for that reason alone?”
She shakes her head. “Not all. I also have a bazillion pictures of kids and grand-kids on my walls. Having my own space allows me to keep them that way.”
“And we decorate differently,” she adds. ” Look up minimalist in the dictionary and there’s his picture. Me?” She winks. “Girl, you’ve seen the way I live. I’ve got some big-honkin’ furniture. And I like my stuff where I can see it.”
“It’s the best of both worlds,” she concludes. “Togetherness and me-time. He’s got his man-cave. And I have my chick haven.”
The server appears. “Separate tabs for you ladies?”
When she reaches for her check, I shoo her hand away.
“Nah, this one’s on me. You just gave me an idea.”
Sounds like a plan to me. What part of it works for you?