This post was first published in Cosmopolitan Australia magazine.
“I’m going home to my husbands,” I call out to the team at Mamamia, as I frantically dash out the office door. “It’s family dinner night.”
Now before you jump to any Big Love style conclusions, let me promise you – I’m no polygamist. Nor am I living in some sort of free-loving hippy commune of shared partners. In fact, I’m not even married.
My husbands are my housemates. Two wonderfully caring, funny and clever blokes who I’ve lived with for a couple of years now.
Calling them my husbands shouldn’t imply any sort of romantic relationship between either of them and me. I say “husbands” because housemates just doesn’t cut it. The term doesn’t convey the requisite closeness, familiarity and, dare I say it, love that I have for them and (I think!) they have for me.
We’re not just people who share living quarters and we’re not just mates. We’re family. They’re the people I go home to at night and cook dinner with. They’re the people I call if my car breaks down or I need a lift home from the airport. They’re the ones I unload to about a bad day at work, or a fight with my sister or yet another gendered miscommunication with my boyfriend.
They’re my confidantes and my carers. Just like I am for them.
They’re my Generation Y family.
So many of my friends are spending the years between, roughly, 21 and 28 living with their Generation Y family. When those share houses eventually come to an end, it’s not just a matter of ‘thanks for letting me use your cheese grater for half a decade, catchya later,’ it’s heralded as the end of an era. It’s as significant as leaving home for the first time.