The best thing about my roommate is that I don't have one! Well that's not entirely true. I live in a double in Charles Commons, so I have a suitemate, and we each have a single bedroom. So I do have a roommate, or a suitemate, or whatever you want to call it. I've been rather lucky; for much of last year, my freshman year, I lived in a single in the AMRs. And now I inhabit a single in Charles Commons. And yet, learning to live with someone else isn't always easy, even if you're just sharing a common area. But if you work it right, it can be the greatest time ever.
To be honest, I was nervous about living with my current roommate. We are very close friends who did not live together last year. I was warned about living with a good friend. Over the years, I have alternated between fighting and accepting my somewhat carefree lifestyle (some might call it messy), while my roommate is inclined toward the tidy life.
"Sixty-five percent of roommates who are also close friends do not speak with one another the following year," an acquaintance offered. "And of that 65, about 30 percent develop emotional problems for life." I thanked my friend for the helpful advice and stuck to my housing plans with a positive spirit. I will not become a statistic, I thought determinedly. If we made living well together a main priority, I figured, we could get through sophomore year with ease.
I'm glad to say that for the most part, it's worked. Except for the time I gave my roommate the silent treatment for 36 hours. I suppose it was a tad silly in retrospect, but at the time it seemed like a good idea. Our suite doesn't have a lot of space, and it made for a tense night or two. But luckily, the tight quarters forced us to make peace. And even though the reunification was a bit messy, and possibly audible through the door, especially outbursts such as "Why can't you just be a nicer person?!" it led to better communication in the future.
Also, my roommate keeps me in check. This is embarrassing, but I am going to put it on paper: When under automatic processing, I am a rather messy eater. (While watching me eat, someone asked me if I was six ... last year. I was a bit taken aback, but I shook it off. Hater.) In November I went through what I fondly refer to now as "the peanut butter phase." I bought several jars of peanut butter from Charles Street Market over the course of a few weeks,and thoroughly enjoyed them. One night, after a post-dinner snack of cookies and peanut butter, I departed my suite for the library. I was barely down the hall when I heard a voice. "Fluger! Get back here!" I turned around. It was the roommate, of course, frowning at me from inside the doorway. "I'm sorry!" I said immediately, walking back. "I don't know what I did, but I can assure you it was with good intentions." She was silent. She pointed toward the door. Apparently, I had been gracious enough to share my peanut butter with the doorknob ... and doorframe. Don't ask me how I managed to do that; I still don't know.
Embarrassed yet rather proud of myself, I restored the door to its original condition and continued on my way. After approving the newly cleaned door, my roommate allowed herself to become amused. All was well.
I actually appreciate her devotion to cleanliness. I cleaned the kitchenette yesterday afternoon and polished the dishes and silverware. When she saw it she was thrilled, because, well, she didn't expect much to begin with. But that's OK. After that peanut butter incident, I can't say I blame her.
