It’s been a while, huh?
I moved into a new apartment in May, and at the end of June, went to India for 2 weeks to visit my grandmothers. I spent most of my time there lounging around and hanging out with family.
Then, I came home to my one-bedroom apartment with its bare walls, floor strewn with cardboard, and endless drone of traffic.
As I think about the places I’ve lived, one memory floats to mind rather immediately. It’s somewhere around the end of my senior year of college, and I’ve been in my room all day doing homework and rolling around aimlessly when I hear raised voices downstairs. I leap up and rub my hands together and cackle “this should be interesting!” and head downstairs. Three of my roommates sit on the couch, a piece of two-hundred-year-old wilted fabric shoved up against peeling walls in our tiny living room.
“It’s not a system,” one of them says, on the edge of the couch cushion, karate chopping the air in front of his chest for emphasis. “If it’s a system, then that means we do the dishes the same way and at the same time every day regardless of whose turn it is.”º
The other roommate plays the peeved everyman. Palms open towards the ceiling, face flat and loose, eyes searching the room’s corners as his sentences begin but converging towards System Roommate as they end. “Well I’ve got exams the next two days,” he says, “so the only times I can do them are either tonight or in three days.” Reasonable guy. Lord knows he’s not trying to get in anyone’s way. He just wants to keep it real.
“So why can’t you just do the dishes tonight?” I blurt out.
They look at me as though just seeing me, wearing just a tank top and boxer briefs, then motion me to the kitchen where they show me the dishwasher’s contents. A single dirty dish and a few spoons.
“It’s honestly so stupid,” says my third roommate with resignation. He’s just been watching this scenario this whole time. Thank the gods for his unique take on our cohabitants’ pressing psychodrama. Prone to pessimism at the time, these are words which Resigned Roomie’s lived in for some time, whipping them out when he senses a hungry complaint.
“I’d offer to trade dish duty with somebody else, but everyone else has exams or something where they can’t do the dishes till two days from now.” Peeved Everyman looks towards me hopefully. “What about you, Churr†?”
I deflect. “Why not just wait till tomorrow morning?”
But then System Roommate interrupts saying that we’d then be betraying the system that we agreed upon after we performed the contemporary American blood ritual of signing our lease. “Just run it tonight so you’re clear of the dish duty responsibility, then we’ll be fine.”
Myself and Resigned Roommate bristle. “What a waste of water!”
We return to the living room and argue over the ethics of circumventing established rules. Each of us stirring the pot, asking some questions, filing our retorts for later. None of our proposals satisfied all four of us.ª
But we’d throw in some jokes every now and then, neither intentionally nor with any sense of measure, but just because. I wish I remembered what they were. Each joke spread fat grins across our tired faces and broke tension. It was as if we were searching for these pockets of humor in our argument, like digging through icy ground to reach tiny nuggets of gold here and there. No one really wanted to fight. We just wanted to hang out with each other. We were all (and still are) great friends who had the privilege of spending many of our formative years together. So, before we agreed to run the whole dishwasher against that poor lonely plate with two drops of grease on it, we laughed and laughed until diaphragm exhaustion pushed us to sleep.
Now, I live alone. No longer do I have such fond misadventures. There is no shared experience to subscribe to, no voices to listen to through the upstairs floorboards. Sentimentality doesn’t come as easily as it did before. Now, it must be earned through an understanding of my habits, my hangups, my procrastinations, my passions, my priorities. My self.
I’ve lived with people my whole life. Most people do. I was lucky that all of my roommates in my life have also been my friends. I lived in a two-bedroom with a Quiet Friend before moving into a single. When I’d come home from work, I’d toss my backpack in my room, change into my who-gives-a-shit outfit, and check out what he was up to. Sometimes, he’d be playing video games or watching TV while eating some wonderfully unique snack, which he’d usually offer me˚. We’d ask each other about our days. I left out no details, telling him exactly which parts were great and which were arsehole. We work at the same company, so he’d share some of my sentiments. Throughout, he’d nod and listen and offer up some acknowledging comment. Then, I’d make a smoothie and we’d more or less do our own things. How nice those little moments were, when I could let my heart take a shit all over Quiet Friend, who’d applaud the mess.
I’d hang out for a bit before retreating to my room, my minimalist safe haven adorned with posters, little mirrors, a bookshelf, and a(n) (unused) desk. I would prop myself up and read a book while listening to dull echoes of Community reruns and my roommate’s guffawing. Ah, that was nice, but I’m glad I’m here now, I’d think. Then, I’d journal or read or listen to music before going to bed.
One day, I came home and heard digital groaning noises float over from the living room. When I entered the living room, I saw Quiet Friend perched on the edge of the couch, Xbox controller gripped tightly, mouth agape and face as flat as a rock. I tossed my backpack on the floor and laid down on the other couch. The bearded blue-coated outlaw that he controlled onscreen sprinted through a dirty street crowded with sluggish townspeople and shouted profanity at all of them. He lassoed people and took their money. He got wasted and fist-fought at the local saloon. He went to movies with his ex-girlfriend and booed the performers.
Hours passed that way, myself slumped on the couch watching Quiet Friend play Red Dead Redemption 2. It became something I’d look forward to when I got home, a fun escape from whatever else I had planned that day. I can’t say for sure, but I think Quiet Friend noticed too. We’d both sort of lose ourselves in these relaxing binges. Sometimes, I’d play Zelda on his Nintendo Switch while he played Red Dead on the TV. We’d always have snacks available to share.
During some of these sessions, however, I’d notice myself avoiding something. I think it was the same thing that I avoided by running downstairs to participate in my friends’ dishwasher argument two years before. When I recognized that, I shuffled over to him one morning and told him I’d be living alone after our lease expired. I told him that as time passes, living alone will be less and less likely as I think about moving to New York, sharing a place with a significant other, etc., and I want to just try it and see. Of course, I also wanted my own place free from distraction and compromise. But I also wanted to get to know myself a little bit better. I felt too sheepish to admit that part to him.
Some parts were challenging. In my first month of moving into this new place, I bought an entertainment center, compost bin, kitchen utensil holder, glass coffee table, rug, wall-mounted shelves, instant pot, TV, electric kettle, doormat, shoe rack, plant pots, steam mop, plastic shelves, hacksaw, bar table, ironing board, tide to-go pens, tall lamp, and a six-pack of SunButter. The stream of online purchases has not lessened since then. I’m still discovering household appliances or decor that I really need (want) and order them online™. I can no longer mooch off of Quiet Friend’s couch or immersion blender or television.
Some parts are just fun and silly. I learned that I really, really enjoy listening to Midwest Emo music as I do dishes. I love my lava lamp to death. Sometimes I dance alone in my place to unwrinkle my often-seated body. Privacy is so guaranteed that the pointless exercise of moving from my living room to my bedroom (besides sleeping) warrants a laugh each time.
Some parts are lonely. I’ve always believed that a home comes from the people that form my everyday existence and make memories with me. Now I shoulder the responsibility of making plans and inviting people over, and it’s exhausting.
Some parts are surprising. I no longer have an “annoying roommate” to complain about. Just like how venting about a difficult college class or coworker or landlord or traffic feels sort of awfully good, shitting on a roommate provides some of the biggest release. At the root of it, most life situations are things we have no control over. Look at other common settings that we live in every day. School, office, gym, library, park, bar, restaurant, theater, etc. In each of these, we’re subject to certain rules, expectations, and compromises that lead to us groaning and pulling our hair out.
“This assignment’s impossible. F**k our ugly professor for making it due tomorrow.”
“That dude’s been using the elliptical for way too long! It’s time I give him a piece of my mind.”
“We ordered thirty minutes ago. Where’s our goddamn risotto?”
“My roommate gets up at six a.m. and plays Best of 50 Cent playlists loudly on his speakers. It wakes me up every day and I’ll forever curse him and his future children to hell.”
I no longer have a reliable source of complaint. Actually, that’s not true. All I can complain about is myself®. I now endlessly confront my own decisions. Everything around me—my home’s decorations and aesthetic, its cleanliness, my quantity of groceries, my dearth of sitting space—is a function of me. The messes are mine. The ambiance is mine. The bills are mine. The unstocked pantry is mine. The dirty toilet is mine. The old furniture I want to get rid of is mine.
There is no scapegoat for perceived offenses or irresponsibilities, no white noise inside which my homemaking decisions can hide. “Oh, Bob the Roommate doesn’t like posters in the dining room” won’t cut it anymore. I own everything now, and suddenly my quality of life is utterly my responsibility and completely at stake.
What a relief!
º: The quotes given here may be slightly paraphrased. It was late at night three years ago. I did my best, okay!
†: That’s me!
ª: We have two other roommates out of the house, but we agreed that it’d be best to ignore their input.
˚: Jalapeño chips, cookies, chocolate-covered espresso beans. You get the (mouth-watering) picture.
™: Most recently, I ordered a bookshelf, plastic rolling cabinets, and a papasan chair.
®: And my bills. But those will never go away.
Other Stuff
Cute competition idea: have a brownie bake-off. Allocate approx. 3 hours one day to gather ingredients and bake brownies with a friend (or foe, I suppose). Choose a second friend who is impartial and has plenty of patience and a refined palate to judge the brownies. Recommended stakes: loser must vote libertarian for the next five years.
First date idea: Talk exclusively about how much you hated the film Inception. Reroute conversational topics towards this point (e.g. Them: “Yup. It sucked. What was that wilderness movie that Leonardo DiCaprio was in recently? I loved that one!” You: “It was indeed an impressive film. But really, Isabelle, it isn’t much of a compliment knowing that his performance in unwarranted 2006 box-office success Inception was the bottom of the barrel”). Dress up as a top if you really want to turn it up a notch.
Why do bugs get to climb up walls? Who let them??? What have they done to deserve it????
Short story collections are mixtapes for fiction.
Someone: “Do you know <Person>?” Suggested response: “Nowhere near intimately enough.”
“A picture is worth a thousand words” is outdated. Words ARE pictures. They carry them. Saying a picture is worth a thousand words is like saying a house is worth a thousand moving trucks.
To the icy colleague that you can’t abide: “Getting to know you is like climbing a barbed-wire fence.”