Sharing a Life Is Easy—But a Wardrobe?

As I stand by the front door of our apartment, nervously awaiting the arrival of yet another package — a buttery silk kaftan dress this time— I brace myself for the inevitable raised eyebrow from my husband. It’s become part of our routine; the doorbell rings, I eagerly grab my latest online find, and he wonders if there’s any space left to store it. It’s a dance we’ve perfected over the years — a lighthearted, almost comedic rhetoric about storage that I’m convinced happens in households everywhere. When we first started dating 13 years ago and later moved in together, we didn't need to explicitly discuss the idea of sharing cabinets. It just fell into place, like two pieces of a puzzle — no shared closets or bathrooms. We’ve always preferred to keep our wardrobes in separate rooms. His is a minimalist’s dream — neat, efficient, and strictly essential. I’m those things too, minus the essentials.

You May Also Like: These Are The Things To Agree Upon Before Moving In Together

In the first Sex and the City movie, when Carrie confides in her realtor about understanding why a couple might split over closet space it strikes a chord that feels all too familiar. Throughout the seven homes we’ve lived in, I’ve always unjustly commandeered three times

The sheer variety of things I own naturally throws off our storage equilibrium. Beyond just clothes, I have entire collections — jewellery, shoes, bags — that each demand dedicated space. The small slice of closet space he does own is strictly off-limits. Having never shared space with anyone before me, he’s incredibly particular about his designated area. There’s a complete system in place — immaculate folding, clever space-saving hacks, and a firm rule against overstuffing. Everything is neatly ironed and categorised to perfection. The true negotiation isn’t about splitting up the existing storage; it revolves around forecasting just how much more space I’ll inevitably require and finding ways to keep my overflow from spilling into common spaces.

Fortunately, it’s become a longstanding joke he’s graciously embraced through the years. I imagine that this armoire tango is universal, so I text a friend for her to take and simultaneously pay a visit to my mother Neela, a known hoarder, to learn how this was historically handled in our family. She laughs and reminds me of my grandparents, minimalists in every sense, who had a legendary Godrej cupboard where they kept their most treasured possessions — vintage Kanjivaram saris, family documents, and souvenirs from trips abroad, all safely guarded behind this iron fortress that no one else had access to. My grandmother may have needed more room, but they guarded this sacred space as a couple, a silent testament to the balance they struck in their marriage. In a sense, the ongoing space debates are a mirror of our marriage: independent but collaborative, organised but willing to bend, knowing each other’s quirks and making space for them, quite literally.

Setting generational differences aside, modern marriages consistently hinge on negotiation across various dimensions of shared life. A close friend and former work wife, who’s been married for as long as I have, responds in time to validate this phenomenon. “My husband’s the organised parent — he handles deadlines and administrative tasks for our child. I’m involved with schoolwork, snacks, and general care. It’s about playing to our strengths. We’re mindful about negotiations not going into battle territory. They should be fair, simple, and even fun at times. You don’t want everyday discussions turning into full-blown arguments,” she concludes. In our home too, negotiations are par for the course. I’m the go-to for anything food-related, from meal planning to groceries and managing our cook, while he takes the lead on home maintenance, cleaning supplies, and the house help’s schedule.

When it comes to travel, we’re a well-oiled machine and love nothing more than lounging on a remote island. Still, our roles are unambiguous — he’s the logistics whiz, skillfully snagging fantastic deals, as I take on the more enjoyable tasks of sifting through boutique lists for our destination and curating vacation themes. The major decisions have remained largely unchanged, but the real evolution is in the mundane dailies and how we choose to unwind. My screen preferences are moody, and he’s recently discovered spiritual podcasts. When we do find common ground in our viewing habits, it’s likely cosy Nancy Meyers-style rom-coms or regional cinema.

Personal space is non-negotiable too. We regularly carve out time to pursue our individual passions, perfectly content doing things that don’t always involve the other. Being a child-free couple at the moment gives us flexibility — we can spontaneously travel, or take solo trips without guilt. I jet off for a weekend on a wellness retreat, and he heads to an ashram without finding it offensive or perceiving it as avoidance. In contrast, I’ve also witnessed couples who revel in doing everything together, and for them, that arrangement is just as harmonious. I’m instantly reminded of another controversial Sex and the City mediation moment, where Carrie and John negotiate how many nights they’ll spend apart in her spare apartment — a choice she doesn’t justify even to her girlfriends. Our recent trip to Japan is the perfect example of having successfully tested that theory. Out of the 10 days, we spent eight together exploring. For the remainder, we followed separate itineraries to dive into interests that the other wasn’t as enthusiastic about. I made my way to Kyoto’s local fashion scene and he trekked to a Buddhist temple instead. This balance is the sweet spot, permitting us to fully enjoy the things we love and preventing any simmering resentment from missing out or compromising too much.

Ultimately, a marriage is made of small negotiations through the week that are almost predictable — from who gets away with blanket hogging to who makes Netflix choices or dinner plans. Over time, I’ve identified that while our eccentricities were initially met with resistance, we’ve also absorbed a bit of each other’s oddities, making it easier to meet halfway. As I excitedly tear open the new package that has just arrived, my husband says cheekily, “We’re probably going to need a bigger house,” and for once, I can’t help but wholeheartedly agree

This has been adapted for the web from an article published in Manifest’s December 2024-January 2025 issue that is now on stands. For more stories like this, subscribe here!