Are You Settling or Just Giving the Relationship a Very Good Tour?

Let’s say you’ve been with a man for a long time, and lately you can’t help but notice that something feels a little off.

Nothing terrible has happened, of course. Nobody is running through the house shouting, the ceiling is still where it belongs, and from the outside everything probably looks perfectly fine. You’re just not particularly happy anymore, which is much harder to explain when there is no obvious disaster to point at.

Well, yes, you hardly talk in the evenings, and affection has gone a little quiet, but long-term relationships change. You cannot remember the last time you were genuinely excited to spend time together, although really, excitement is terribly overrated.

The trouble with a long relationship is that after you have lived in it for years, you stop looking at it as something you are choosing today. You know every room, every strange little corner and every door that needs an extra push, then a second push, and eventually a cheerful little shove while insisting, “It always does that.”

The relationship is the property, you are the resident, and somehow you have also become the realtor. So instead of wondering whether you might be settling, you start giving the place an extremely flattering tour—and goodness, you do know how to show a property!

Please Ignore That Room

The place has plenty going for it.

You have familiar routines, mutual friends, photographs from countless holidays and several household objects neither of you can remember buying. People know you as a couple. In other words, you have been living here for quite some time.

So whenever the question of whether you are actually happy wanders in, you immediately point toward the good features.

Look at the years together!

Lovely.

And the location is excellent.

You know exactly where everything is. You know which stories he tells twice, what he orders and precisely how long he means when he says he will be ready in five minutes.

Very established neighborhood.

The loneliness?

Ah.

That is not loneliness. That is excellent privacy.

The fact that you barely touch anymore?

Very peaceful.

The conversations that now consist largely of practical questions and somebody asking whether anything is needed from the store?

Wonderful use of space.

You are becoming alarmingly good at this.

Then, of course, there is one room nobody likes opening. It has an unfortunate habit of ruining the mood. So the door stays shut.

“Oh, nothing much in there.”

Madam.

Then why are we guarding it like the crown jewels?

The Brochure Is Getting Rather Creative

After you have lived in the place long enough, even rooms like that can start feeling oddly normal. The little crack by the window has always been there, that door has never closed properly, and years ago you simply learned to jiggle the handle.

Relationships do this too. Something changes, you get used to it, and after a while you have even got used to the fact that you got used to it.

Soon you are explaining that you and your man simply “have different communication styles,” when what you mean is that you stopped telling him half the things that matter because the conversations go nowhere.

You say you are both independent, which sounds lovely and sophisticated until you remember that sometimes you feel lonely while he is sitting three feet away.

Still, the brochure remains gorgeous.

LONG-TERM STABILITY.

LOTS OF HISTORY.

LOW DRAMA.

No mention of the evening you sat beside him and wondered whether this is simply what the rest of your romantic life is going to feel like.

That photograph did not make the brochure.

Instead, you move briskly toward the nicest room.

“And look at these original moldings.”

Really, they are excellent moldings.

... But Would You Choose This Place Today?

Eventually, though, even the moldings run out of things to say.

You know every lovely feature, every difficult season you survived together and every reason leaving would be complicated. You can point out the beautiful morning sun while politely avoiding the fact that nobody has opened the curtains in three years.

Because, oh, you can explain this place.

You could sell it in a snowstorm.

And somewhere around here, the question of settling becomes much harder to dodge.

Eventually, even the most enthusiastic realtor runs out of things to say.

You can call the silence peaceful, the distance independent and the loneliness excellent privacy. You can polish every feature, soften every flaw and produce a brochure so lovely it practically deserves its own ribbon.

Eventually, when the tour is over, you realize something rather awkward: after giving the place such a flattering tour, you still do not actually want to live there.

Not in this relationship as it is now.

Which is a rather inconvenient conclusion after spending so much time making the place sound wonderful...