The jig is up

My dearest readers,

I am not who you think I am.

I am not the champion of equality you’d once been sold.

I am not Miss Independent, nor Miss Self-Sufficient, nor Miss Keep Your Distance.

When I bought Andrew an Apple Watch and a lavish Italian dinner in Soho, I was not flexing out of pure love for my man, though do know there’s no shortage of that.

I have kept a secret from you, heavy on my heart since the spring.

I have not been paying rent.

Nope. Zilch. Zero transactions have supported that $2,000 price tag in months. I’ve been living off lease and on point, lounging in exotic silks and furs, men in grey sweatpants feeding me grapes and stroking my hair. If you honestly believed that this “secret” has been “heavy on my heart,” then you’ve fallen into my trap again, love. Because I’ve been stacking paper guilt-free until today. The jig is up, and I’m not feeling so chill about it.

I was sitting in the kitchen with Andrew, chatting about the apartment. I asked if he thought we’d stay there another year or move; I’d been debating a few decor upgrades (the things one ponders without the burden of actually paying for the place). He said we’d plan to move in May. Oh, and speaking of the apartment, would I be open to paying rent come January? His student loans kick back in and it would help a lot.

the feminism leaving my body when my boyfriend asks me to pay rent for the apartment I’m living in

I’d love to say it was in that moment that the feminism left my body, like some smoky apparition of Dias past clocked out for the last time after months of poor working conditions. But she’d long been off the payroll. It was just this morning that I was forced to confront her absence.

I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that I haven’t been paying rent, or the fact that I truly believe I shouldn’t have to. Do I not deserve a flicker of joyful liberation from adulthood? Is it not wayyyy more fun watching me clomp around in Bottega Venetas than Uggs, or whatever rent-paying girls wear? Doesn’t it turn you on to see me save for our future home? I’d gotten too cozy throwing $50 here, $100 there, knowing I wasn’t going dutch with some faceless landlord. But alas, nothing gold can stay. And no man living on an equally mediocre salary will happily fund your digs, no matter your gag reflex.

Today marks the end of a most brief and delightful era. Perhaps the only taste of true freedom I’ll know henceforth. If you don’t see me after January 1, it’s because I’m in mourning, or picking up odd jobs to pay my rent.

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This piece is mostly a joke, though the situation is true. Help me pay my rent by becoming a paid subscriber today for $5 a month. Have a safe and sexy Halloweekend!