Chapter Two: Marriage is Just Fancy Roommate Training

I always imagined marriage would feel different—more romantic, more cinematic. But most days, it feels like a slightly upgraded version of being roommates. The difference is, now there’s a marriage certificate on the fridge and occasional kisses mixed in with the arguments about who forgot to buy milk.

Take the thermostat, for example. My husband insists on “fresh” air, which is his polite way of saying “let’s live in Antarctica.” Meanwhile, I’m bundled in two socks and a blanket, wondering if toes can legally file for divorce. We reached a compromise: he gets his fresh air, and I quietly layer sweaters like an onion.

Nobody writes this into wedding vows: “I promise to love you through sickness, health, and wildly unreasonable indoor climates.”

But here’s the wisdom hidden in the silliness: marriage isn’t really about grand gestures or dramatic declarations. It’s the tiny adjustments—the willingness to bend without breaking, to laugh instead of fight, to share the last Tim Tam instead of hiding it (though hiding is sometimes tempting).

So in my diary I wrote:

Marriage is basically advanced roommate training. You learn how to share a bathroom, a bed, and occasionally a Netflix password, all while trying not to kill each other over toothpaste tubes. The secret? Patience, humour, and the occasional strategic sock.

And honestly, that’s more romantic than roses.