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Growing up, I imagined cohabitation was synonymous with the end of fun. Time to be a grown-up. Time to do laundry. Time to stop running around like a maniac with your little sister. It doesn't make sense that I felt that way, with my dad always dancing around the house (making my mom laugh until she cried) or seeing how content my parents were spending mornings on the screened-in porch with coffee and newspapers, occasionally sharing random tidbits. It was some sort of subconscious thought that I can only assume stemmed from the fact that in my daydreams, the person I'd be cohabiting with was unknown. A stranger, an outsider. He wasn't my mom or dad or Isabel. But then!

Blake. The best person I've ever known. Sure we're sort of grown-ups, and of course there are normal stresses, worries, things to get tense about. But then there are times at dinner when he leans in to give me a kiss and instead spits a tomato at me. Or I come home from happy hour with girlfriends and he's in the kitchen baking beet brownies (for the record, delicious). Or when I fall asleep on the couch at nine, he lets me sleep soundly while he finishes the dishes and locks the doors. It's the best sort of teamwork. And at the end of the day, you get to live with your most favorite person. So. Win win.