I’m from Minnesota: the land of 10,000 lakes, wide open fields, and Target. I grew up in a spacious house with a yard, basement, and enough space to fit all of that shit you inexplicably bring home from Target. After high school, I moved to California for college, and almost 10 years later still live here. I did, however, have to adapt to a different, more compact way of living. As many San Franciscans do, I found a small studio apartment to save on rent. Shortly thereafter, my boyfriend moved in and we decided to stay in my spot until we found a fitting place for two. As it turns out, fitting places for two cost twice our monthly income, so we’ve stayed put for a while.
As much as I love San Francisco, I still visit home a lot. I like talking to my friends and family about how wonderful the city is, and as the conversation progresses, I suggest they come to visit. This results in the inevitable question: “Do you have a guest room?” Minnesotans all have guest rooms. They also tend to have very large, unfurnished basements that are too big to deal with, so they just keep that door closed, sealing off 1,000 square feet of living space until some future date when they want to use it. Here, those dark, concrete levels would house multiple families and go for 10k a month.
“We’re actually in a studio right now,” I respond. I then eye their kitchen, cut it in half with arm gestures, and explain that my entire apartment would fit inside their breakfast nook. This yields a variety of responses, like, “Interesting.” “Really?” “That’s…nice.” or, my personal favorite, “I’m so sorry.” It can be a little demeaning, explaining that two working adults nearing our 30s share a 200-square-foot apartment (which is a rough estimate; Craigslist never boasted the size, but to give you an idea, I can transition from our bedroom, living room, office, and kitchen in five strides), but everyone makes sacrifices, right?
It’s like one big, extended sleepover, but for adults.
Some things about our tiny apartment are great. We have a lot of time together, albeit forced, which means we know each other very well. You learn each other’s favorite TV shows, grooming habits, laundry preferences, even mannerisms — like the tiptoe and hip tilt which means open the window. When you work, eat, relax, and sleep all in the same large room, you end up — you guessed it — working, eating, relaxing, and sleeping together. It’s like one big, extended sleepover, but for adults.
Despite the size, we have a pretty good routine worked out. Once the alarm goes off, I make the bed and brush my teeth while he showers, then we switch and I shower while he brushes his teeth. He shaves as I get dressed, then — once the closet is free — he gets dressed as I do my makeup. We even drive to and from work together. The fact that we haven’t strangled each other by now surprises many people, including ourselves, and makes us feel pretty solid about our relationship. If we were a lesbian couple, our cycles would probably be synced up by now.
As for the cons, they tend to mirror the pros. They also tend to outnumber them. When your apartment is one room, there aren’t separate areas for the stuff of each other’s that you don’t really like but would tolerate in a larger space. We’ve tried putting everything together just to see how it looks, but modern and mid-century modern are really two different styles. My record player is sadly losing the current battle of hipster novelty versus modern convenience. There also aren’t separate rooms for having friends over, so wine and bad TV night isn’t exclusive to me and my BFF anymore; my boyfriend just awkwardly sits in the corner and asks what we’re watching, while slowly pulling out his phone to desperately try and make plans. Even phones themselves have become an issue, as having a conversation is challenging unless you want your roommate clued in on all details. I tried to give him a surprise birthday gift last year, but secrets in studios are impossible. I ruined the surprise and just told him.
Our kitchen has a maximum occupancy of one, which we’ve learned is really best since the second person needs to man the nearby fire alarm (above our bed). This generally gives us an excuse to be lazy and makes takeout our go-to option.
On a diet of takeout, it would be nice if our bathroom were more than a few feet off the main room in our quaint, unventilated Victorian building. There’s just nowhere to go. I think it’s good to be comfortable in a relationship, but would argue that it’s possible to get to know someone too well. It’s like a cycle: You start out uncomfortable with a new beau, eventually become comfortable, lean toward too comfortable, and, finally, end up uncomfortable again. In our bathroom situation, the best we can do is run some water and hope no one is lurking right outside the door, which oftentimes, they have to be. Like I said before: uncomfortable.
You have to agree on just about everything in a studio: when the TV is on, what to watch, when to work, what to eat, and when it’s bedtime.
You have to agree on just about everything in a studio: when the TV is on, what to watch, when to work, what to eat, and when it’s bedtime. I’m lucky my boyfriend can sleep through anything, but a soft sneeze from our neighbor’s kitten could wake me up, so in that way I’m a little less fortunate. While he was studying for the California Bar, I too got the sleep of an aspiring lawyer, just without the degree or pay increase. You’d think law lectures would actually put me to sleep, but when they’re playing on a monitor two feet from your pillow, that is not the case.
We have to be pretty careful about getting on each other’s nerves. I’ve learned to close doors and cupboards after use, but I guess that’s more of a hazard than a nuisance in these quarters. If one thing gets left out of place, the whole apartment falls into shambles, full of tripping hazards and cartoonish closet avalanches. I’ve learned to ignore the beard hairs that collect in our sink, just as my boyfriend has learned to love that cute way I leave shoes everywhere. Overall, we have become pretty good communicators, because if we get in a fight there’s nowhere to go let off steam. You can talk about it, or go sulk in the small coat closet. To be fair, there have been times I’ve chosen the closet.
Minnesotans are known to be nice, optimistic people. I think it’s given me some patience to deal with our tight situation, and while it can be the pits, it’s actually not that bad. Sure, I’d kill for a wall to put between my boyfriend and me sometimes, but I would still take this over living alone again. It may be because I eat a lot less mac and cheese with someone keeping me accountable, but I think it’s helped me grow up. When I was young, I thought adulthood was living in a big home with a white picket fence, a sturdy dog, and a mustachioed husband (a lot of my friends’ dads had mustaches back then). So for now, turns out my happily ever after will just be in the form of a studio apartment, a French bulldog, and a boyfriend with a hairy chest.