“So Boyfriend is panicking. Completely freaking out. It’s blatantly obvious.”

I’m sitting at dinner with S, a longtime friend and confidante, spilling my anxiety in a pool on the table while devouring bites of lobster gnocchi.

“What, about the move?”

“Not just the move, all of it. Living together, commitment, what it ‘means’ in the future. Everything. He suggested that we do it in the first place, and now, at the witching hour, he’s losing it.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s been blatantly clear the past week or so, he gets this dodgy evasive look whenever I bring up moving logistics, furniture, closet space, the cat. Then there was the handsoap incident.”

“Handsoap?”

“We got home from dinner the other night, he went into the bathroom and I heard this frenzied yelp. He marches into the living room with this wild-eyed expression, points to the bathroom sink and says ‘What the hell is that?’ I looked and said, ‘It’s Pumpkin Spice handsoap, we needed it in the bathroom, the other stuff you had in there was gross and congealing.’ He literally shuddered and put his face in his hands, as if I had somehow desecrated his sacred Man Temple with my unholy girly soap. ”

We exchange looks that may as well have been scripted, and simultaneously begin to chuckle. Cue the laugh track in the background.

“I guess at that point it hit him that he couldn’t just stash me in the closet behind the porn and snowboard equipment, I would actually be moving in, occupying real space in all my girly splendor, as it were.”

“So what’s your plan then?”

“There is no plan. Yesterday we had this huge summit over the whole issue and I swear he spouted every line of guy BS in the book - he’s not sure if he’s ready, he has doubts, he doesn’t want to push things or move too fast, it’s a big ’step.’ He tossed out every possible phrase of relationship lingo, it was quite masterful really.”

“Too fast? You’ve been dating for X years, right?”

“Yes. I can’t even believe it’s been this long, it’s all a blur.”

“Well, he has dealt with bad experiences in the past, maybe that’s the issue. It’s difficult to get over relationship scarring, especially when you were living with someone else.”

“You’re right, and I understand his feelings - things are wonderful just as they are. Why disturb a great situation? Why potentially inflict us on each other in close quarters? He’s not the only one with trepidation about all this. I’ve lived alone for as long as I can remember, and loved every moment. Sometimes I can’t even stand having Cat around, just from the need to be alone. Well, I take that back - she and I have an understanding.”

“But you clearly want to do this, the whole cohabitation arrangement, right?”

“Absolutely. No question. That is, until our relationship started turning into a bad sitcom.”

“So what did you say? How did it end? Was anything resolved?”

“He finished his diatribe, I stared at him for a minute, then launched into my timed response. It all flooded out, I couldn’t even believe the crap that emerged from my mouth. ‘I need to know if this is going to work, I can’t wait forever, I want this step in our relationship,’ I may have directly channelled Marisa Tomei in ‘My Cousin Vinny.’ It wasn’t pretty.”

“Good Lord. You said all that?”

“I know, I still can’t believe it. I just wanted to avoid being That Girl at all costs.”

“Which girl?”

“You know, That Girl, the archetypal cloying, estrogen-filled empress of manipulation, hissing words like ‘commitment’ and spouting ultimatums in front of Tiffanys. The girl who thinks a relationship is a means to an end, that diamonds and churches somehow translate into ‘winning.’” She’s a standard character in half the TV dramas I’ve seen. Too bad fiction is often based on reality.

“Uhh, well…” She shoots me a wry look.

“I was That Girl wasn’t I. Shit!” I wonder if the producers would censor my language. Hopefully my life won’t be on network. Anything but a primetime slot.

“No, not entirely, although you may have employed some of Her lingo. But I’d say in the given situation it was called for.”

“If I start throwing around phrases like ‘biological clock’ and ‘fear of commitment,’ you have my permission to gun me down on the street.” I gulp down the remaining splash of wine in my glass and fixate distractedly on my empty plate for a moment. S knows me well, that wandering stare signifying plummeting anxiety, and steps in with her arsenal of ambrosial wisdom.

“O, I sincerely think that, once you two calm down, stop reenacting TV scripts and settle into a routine, all of this will smooth out and you’ll both realize how much you adore living together. Don’t worry, just leap. It will all be fine.”

I shoot her a grateful look and grab a dessert menu from the adjacent table. “You’re right. No more stress. We’ve created enough drama to fuel an entire daytime soap. On that note, bring me a towering slab of tiramisu.”