I’m no revisionist historian. I don’t imagine that the good old days were much better than the good current days. In many ways, I suspect they were worse. Women were oppressed and lacked any real opportunities for career or self-improvement, men shouldered too much of the financial responsibility for the family, and kids, well, who the hell knows what kids were doing back then — probably the same things they’re doing now, except with sticks, stones, and hooch instead of guns, knives, and Colt 45 Malt Liquor.

The myth that the old days were better than the new days appears largely through the rose-colored glasses of time. But a few of the good old days’ best features have been inexplicably thrown out like a baby with the bathwater. Some conventions of the past were damn good ideas, tossed out only because we think they’re anachronistic vestiges of a bygone era. I realized just how wrong this thoughtless rejection is when my beloved and I began talking about moving in together.

If it comes to pass, this excursion into cohabitation will not be my first. I have twice lived with boyfriends. The second time, I was in the midst of my attempt to get a fledgling writing career off the ground. I lived with a man whose two young sons visited on weekends and every other Wednesday. We lived in a small two-bedroom apartment, and the second bedroom was my writing space — unless the kids were in-house, and then it was their bedroom. I realized within a week that my territorial instincts were far more profound than I’d imagined. The first time the three-year-old told me to stop working and get out of "his room" was a watershed moment of self-awareness; I was aware that I wanted to wring his little neck. He was invading my sacred turf — a space that I had designed, created, and arranged for optimal writing output and creative flow. He wanted to use my desk as a launch pad for his toy spaceship. The situation got worse when my boyfriend refused to support my attempts to declare my desk area a no-fly zone.

Within a very short time, I began to feel like a caged animal, without a single space that was just mine, arranged the way I like it, where I could curl up and be left alone for a few minutes. When you live with a roommate, it’s not a problem. Your bedroom is your own private space. But when you’re shacking up (married, unmarried, whatever), you share every room. When I strolled out of that relationship five months after we moved in together, I left with little more than an important lesson: never, ever live anywhere where you don’t have your own personal space.

And so, as my current beloved and I sat discussing our ideal living situation (condo or house, downtown or ’burbs, rent or buy, king or queen bed, one bedroom or two), I had but one ironclad requirement: my own room.

"Your own what?" my beloved gasped, thinking I wanted separate sleeping quarters. I explained that I didn’t want my own bedroom, I just wanted a place no one else could mess with. "Why?" he asked. I thought for a moment, and it occurred to me that I had no idea why I needed that special space. I just knew that I did.

I needed something that our forefathers and -mothers figured out a long time ago. Go into the home of an old couple and you’ll often find a sewing room and a workshop. They’re usually just tiny nooks, tucked away in some alcove or gable. They’re packed with knitting needles, fabric, and patterns. They are stuffed with half-finished woodworking projects from three generations of fathers and husbands. There is an unmistakable sense of ownership to these rooms; you realize the second you walk into them that you’re in someone’s very private space — more private even than his or her bedroom. These were places to go and be alone, away from family, away from spouse, to clear one’s head and concentrate on something uniquely one’s own — like knitting a sweater or building a stool. The husbands and wives of old probably didn’t have much patience for touchy-feely things like emotional needs or "desire for personal space." They seem just to have stumbled upon this elegant way of meeting a deep-seated longing they didn’t even know they had.

Today, modern living spaces have all but dispensed with this seemingly misogynistic gendered architecture — and it’s too bad. In some large homes, men and women are still able to eek out a "sewing room" or "workshop," but more commonly, every room is everyone’s room. Home prices and rental costs make it all but impossible for most people to find a place with enough room to fit a bed and bureau, never mind "personal space." Some folks have set up home offices, but all too often, they’re an extension of the kitchen, or if Pottery Barn has had its way, a faux-antique armoire that opens up to a fully functional office space in the middle of the living room. This, I fear, defeats the highest purpose of a home office: to get away from the rest of the household.

As my beloved and I continue our discussions about our potential future home, I am pleased to say that even though he might not understand why I feel as I do, he’s willing to humor me. We’ll see whether his patience continues when he has to co-sign a lease for a two-bedroom. And the real test will come when I declare my "sewing room" a no-fly zone.

Kris Frieswick’s work is included in the humor anthology 101 Damnations: A Humorist’s Tour of Personal Hells, to be published by Dunne Books in August. She can be reached at k.frieswick@verizon.net