I just learned about Living Apart Together (LAT). Interesting idea. (Isn't that what Woody and Mia did, only to have their sense of family diluted enough that Woody took up with his wife's adopted daughter? Eww.)

But from the sounds of it, others make it work, and in living apart, they find the freedom to stay together as a couple.

What about the opposite? Allow me to coin the term Living Together Apart (LTA!). As in someone moves into the guestroom and the former couple shares the apartment equally as roommates, and no intimate relationship continues.

I bet Rob would go for it. And this way I get to keep my favorite study intact, continue to receive the affections of my cat, and stay in my beloved neighborhood!

But would it be fair to Rob? I've been opening up to the idea that we have helped each other grow but might need to grow in separate directions in the future. While living together could eventually impact our moving on and dating, what about in the near future? Is it possible this could ease a transition?

Or is it a cop out when the fear of change and loneliness related to moving out are too tough to imagine? I'd love to hear from others who have given it a try.

Though tentative about commencing a trial separation from Rob, I recently undertook an apartment search. After finally graduating from browsing listings to meeting potential apartment-mates on-site, I hit a wall: Apparently thirty-something women leaving a troubled marriage are not considered great apartment-mate material.

This was a terrible eye-opener about the stigma I might have to face down the road, but given my uncertainty about leaving Rob, it was kind of nice that the next step — and whether or not to take it — was out of my control.

How convenient to avoid an inner struggle over whether it's time to leave or not — let someone else provide the answer!

Yesterday, however, some nice women in an adorable apartment nearby decided I'm a "good fit." They didn't pry far into my current living situation or personal life, and so the fact that I'd be in the middle of a separation isn't exactly on the table. But their age and respectful reserve make me think they wouldn't unfairly judge my ability to be a roommate with a year's lease by my unsuccessful attempt to choose a life partner.

Now it seems I have to similarly convince the building management company. No doubt much will be revealed about my situation in the "extremely thorough background check" I've been told to expect. Scary. But also a relief: This means I'm still not exactly in control of taking the next step. I guess I'm not quite ready to take the wheel.

Turns out, I'm not desirable roommate material. Here are some typical snippets from the apartment listings I've been reading:

"We are mid-20s, looking for one roommate of same age to complete our household of four."

"Young professional looking for second roommate in 20s or early 30s. 15-month lease only."

"One bedroom available in Victorian June 1. For more information, please respond by telling us about your situation."

"We are recent Boston University grads looking for a 20-something female to fill 1 bedroom in 3-bed apartment. Summer lease with option to renew for 1 year."

Egad! The people I can afford to live with think I'm too old and would probably consider my situation sticky. With no savings and only a moderate salary, the only place I can leave Rob for is a room in an apartment of strangers. Young'uns!

I imagine they are enjoying the freedom from responsibility of entry-level jobs, lead relatively carefree and simple lives, and go on dates a lot. They don't want a 34-year-old married woman cramping their style. And they need to depend on a roommate to stay through a lease, not bail if she decides to go back to her husband.

Can't blame them. I wouldn't want that sort of roommate! But where does that leave me? Makes me want sit tight, right here at home with Rob. I haven't even met any potential roommates, but I imagine I like him much better! The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know.

Must. Keep. Looking.

The apartment search isn't going anywhere — I can't quite take the leap from the Internet to the field. But I've turned one corner: The thought of giving up my comfy home in order to leave Rob for a trial separation no longer scares me half to death.

That fear had me stuck between staying and leaving. But then I acknowledged the significance of the loss of my beloved abode, and it made all the difference. (Thanks here are owed to my therapist.)

I've taken to wandering through my lovely space, lingering over photos and admiring each item I've collected, from vases to furniture: I found this chair in a yard sale and refinished it; I inherited this curio from my grandmother. I invite the memories they evoke, I acknowledge my sadness, and little by little, I let go my attachment to my possessions.

As I was reminded by a good friend who lost her childhood keepsakes to fire last year, things can be replaced; lives can't. So it comes to this: I've got this one life only. I can't let a nicely furnished apartment keep me from exploring possibilities for a happier future.

It's 3 p.m. on Saturday. I slept in a bit late, but I've cleaned the kitchen and bathroom, listened to a lecture while working out at the gym, returned books to the library, fed the cat, and settled down to read the opening passages of the novel I chose for my book club's next meeting. I have a long to-do list this weekend, but there's time, and I'm feeling pretty good about my accomplishments so far.

This is when Rob finds me tucked into my favorite rocking chair by the window, tea in hand, nose in the book, and says "So, what are you going to do today?"

Grrr. When he asks what I'm going to do halfway through an already productive day, he implies I've done nothing of worth yet. He does this a lot — with a short quip he devalues my interests and efforts.

As I try to explain for the umpteenth time why that's kind of a shitty thing to say, I have an a-ha moment.

I realize he isn't judging me for an unproductive day; he is upset that I haven't yet done one thing in particular. Namely, I haven't paid attention to him.

And, in fact, you could say I am acting as if we already live apart.

This is when I know the trial separation we've been discussing can't come soon enough. Given money issues and other logistics, it's necessarily a few months off. I probably owe him the kindness of acknowledgement in the meantime. Better add him to my to-do list.

I adore my apartment. I feel more comfortable and secure here than in any other place I've lived, including my childhood home.

Its charms include exposed brick, honey-colored wood floors that stay glossy despite my neglect, and a funky floor plan that's great for parties.

And the neighborhood can't be beat: cafés, a lively pub, lovely town library, and subway line that in four stops will put me in the middle of the best shopping and eating in Boston. And the rent is under market value.

During a recent tentative discussion about trial separation — an idea I put on the table — Rob admitted that he too sees the advantages of time apart. He's on board and it's no longer about me leaving him, but us choosing this path together.

But because it was my idea first, he continues to claim the upper hand in terms of staying put — the onus is on me to go out and find a new place. He'll live in our nicely appointed and conveniently located home; my "new place" will likely be a room in an apartment shared with strangers in a less desirable neighborhood.

It seems unfair that he gets to stay in our rockin' pad, with no discussion. Why can't I be the one to stay? Why does he get to be king of the castle?