It’s 6 p.m. on a Tuesday night and I’m having a meltdown. I’m in the seventh grade and sitting cross-legged on the floor of my mom’s home office. There are dozens of small stacks of white paper laid out across the floor with no discernible organizational method. She knows exactly where everything is, but only because it’s a giant game of “memory” she’s been playing for the last 15 days. It is April, the middle of tax season.
My boyfriend and I just recently acknowledged our two-and-a-half year anniversary. During all of that time we’ve been making it work even though we are long-distance.
At the beginning of 2014, I put my partner on the medical coverage I receive though my full-time employer. It was a godsend, as going without health insurance and trying to buy your own health insurance in New York City are both surefire paths to the poorhouse. For domestic partners who aren’t married, or for those forbidden from wedding by law, it is perhaps the best work perk you can come by.
“He makes sure I don’t go too far off the saving deep end, and I make sure we have enough money to pay all the bills.”
I periodically get calls from my mother that lasts approximately 15 minutes and are focused solely on the state of my parents’ finances.