The BF grew up on a farm and hates nature; I grew up in downtown Chicago and have quaint notions about how great it would be to live in a small town, i.e., someplace with a smattering of the goods and services I need within walking distance, adjacent to a shitload of nature. You can see the potential problem here.
Right now, we're both still relatively young* and able to cross large, busy intersections before some turd in a Hummer mows us down. But I can see the day ahead when I'm going to be over the filth, done with the congestion, and stranded on that tiny island in the middle of the street, clinging to the traffic light for dear life until the 'walk' sign comes back on. Not a pretty picture.
Plus I want to make sure we are compatible for the long haul. The BF is adamant on the issue of city life; I am adamant on the issue of The BF. Could someone, somewhere, be kidding herself here?
Fortunately, in a stroke of Christmastime serendipity, my blog doppelganger, Samantha Burns (I swear, it's like we were separated at birth, 20 years apart), came up with the answer: the Where You Should Live Quiz.
I took it immediately and pressed The BF to do the same. Surely this rigorous scientific measuring tool would provide us with the answer to our future, something more actionable than "ask again later".
The eerily-true stuff
Relatively speaking, The BF is, no surprise, The Yuppie of the relationship. He is constantly dragging me out to breakfast, lunch and dinner at charming neighborhood eateries when there is perfectly good food in grocery stores lying there uncooked and on special.
Also, the test mavens see him in a loft; so does he. I, on the other hand, lived in a crap part of Brooklyn for two years, and have had enough pee stink and garbage to last a lifetime (although I do miss the 'F' train). And he definitely has a better job than me, The Bohemian Gentrifier, or, as my friend, Scott Ferguson, used to call our little cohort, the Downwardly Mobile White Trash Who Make the Neighborhood Safe for Land Speculators.
The not-so-true stuff
Contrary to test conclusions, The BF does not think he is cooler than everyone else: he thinks he's cooler than everyone else...in Indiana, which is probably true.
The BF is also less likely to patronize a chain store of any sort than I, cheap bastard that I am, and I think he'd rather eat moth balls than a Big Mac. Me? If SCD allowed it, I'd still be enjoying my monthly Extra Value Meal #9, a.k.a. Filet-O-Fish with fries and a Coke. Supersize that baby and I'll meet you at the vomitorium.
The final result: a lifetime of mutual bliss, albeit the urban variety
Fortunately for our relationship, The BF and I still enjoy significant areas of overlap: both of us loathe resort vacations; neither one of us would feel one whit safer if the government and military were the only ones armed (especially under this particular administration); and, despite living in the American city that most resembles one, we are united in our hatred of the dreaded suburbs.
In fact, my acceptable population-to-land-mass ratio is only slightly lower than The BF's, and I'm in the 81st percentile for my age and sex, making me an utter fucking freak as far as lifestyle choices go:
Perhaps that's a good thing**. If I think about it, I'm just as happy with my fellow citizens not knowing, or, more accurately, not caring, whether my recycle bin clanks on the way to the curb and how much I like my nooners. God bless my gay, hophead neighbors.
And yes, that goes for you guys, too.
*Quit laughing Neil, Jenny, Brandon and the rest of you baby-something punks. You are so much closer to the senior citizen discount than you know.
**It's definitely a good thing for The BF, who has said flat-out that one of the reasons he likes me is because I'm a freak.