Karma is that dogged boomerang specifically designed to drop-kick your bootie. I ought to know. I am paying my dues as a former roommate from hell.
Yes, almost every reader can relate to the horrific roomie experience. We’ve all, at one point in time, either played the role of the offending partner or the seething roommate.
There is no shortcut through strife when it comes to living together. People invariably get on each other’s nerves – especially when you’re young and not yet adept at the fine art of social compromise.
I have come to enjoy the stream of roommates that flow through my life. I guess that is a good thing, since I don’t have a choice in the matter. Moving in with complete strangers has become a game – finding out what people are really like, experiencing the different personalities and hopefully forming new friendships that otherwise never would have been.
When I was 17, I moved to Tennessee to attend Tusculum College. I had always been a serious kid, so when I moved eight hours away from my parents, I shocked everyone by immediately taking a crash course in Partying 101, much to my dorm mate’s annoyance. I was blinded by the freedom that had previously terrified me. Later on down the road, of course, I would graduate magna cum laude from Reality 101.
I was perfectly obnoxious in a jolly way, staying out into the wee hours and tromping back into the tiny room in the dead of night. Back then I also cared a great deal less about the cleanliness of my surroundings, and so my personal belongings and clothes became a comfortable clutter on my half of the room. This drove Fiona (not her real name) crazy. Looking back, I can sympathize with her. But not too much.
I’d had “Good Ship Lollipop” visions of my college life, none more laughable than my “Perfect Roommate” fantasy. I’d thought we’d be able to hang out together, pal around, go to lunch on slow days and maybe stay up late yakking about life and watching old cheesy movies on the Sci-Fi channel.
Things did not go according to my plans. This is probably because I fudged my answers on the compatibility survey. Supposedly, the survey results would partner us with someone whom we could bear to share extremely close quarters with for two semesters. The survey composers did not count on the contradiction between who a person is and who they think they are. Or, in my case, who they want to be.
I wanted to be neat. I wanted to be the serious student who goes to bed and gets up early and all that jazz. I really did, until I moved down South and discovered it was a blast to let my hair down once in a while. All I ever wanted to do was camp and hang out with my new friends. This did not help my academic life.
I’ve had numerous roommates and living arrangements since then. In the past six months, two housemates have come and gone, though not because of conflict. Both were headed for bigger and better places, and it was understood that the situation was temporary. Next week, roomie number umpteen heads for Wyoming, and I’ll be on the lookout again for someone to share my apartment with.
I don’t know whether to be excited or to be terrified. I could meet someone really cool or I could meet a nutcase. Remnants of my “ideal roommate” still linger – I do think I came close last fall.
Vanessa was a mystery to me. Hailing from Texas, she was an island unto herself. Since graduating from a college in Louisiana with a French degree, she’s wandered about, singing and playing her guitar and slaving away at crappy minimum wage jobs. On weekends, exotic scents would waft through the autumn air – Mexican and Middle Eastern foods mostly, while she ranted to me about world affairs and the ignorance of the many. She talked about moving to Ireland, Cuba, Cairo and Australia. My favorite memory of her is the time we had at Hotoberfest last fall, on the Hot Springs, N.C., campground. We wandered through the darkness from campfire to campfire, singing and drinking.
We strolled towards tiny Hot Springs and stood by the railroad tracks as the monstrous midnight train roared by, the whistle deafening our ears, the long black body kicking up a wind that tasseled our hair. I’m glad I got to know her. She’s living the bohemian life in New Orleans, still playing music and waiting tables.
Selecting a roommate is such a crapshoot. Believe me, once you live with a person, you know them more thoroughly than you would ever want to.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is why living with your significant other is so dangerous.
Being in a relationship is a lot like juggling a dozen eggs – and moving in with your honey is going to make it twice as likely that you’re going to have a mess to clean up.
Besides, it takes all the fun out of dating once you’ve been conned into washing his crusty socks, or you realize she’s completely monopolizing the bathroom the hour before class.
It’s funny how absolutely irritating your roommate can be – yet when you do these things, well, it’s no big deal. Not to you anyway.
Friends, I have seen the light. I find myself “tsk-ing” at the furry floating islands of penicillin that congregate in week-old cups of tea. I cast an evil eye on unwashed dishes, bathrooms left with no toilet paper, and trash left for me to carry curbside. Curiously enough, I find myself wiping the edges of condiment containers, peanut butters and jellies included. Letting “the kids” (kitty cat and mutt puppy) lick the cereal bowls is a no-no. My parents would have suffered simultaneous strokes if I had cleaned voluntarily at 17, much less regularly.
I’m working on putting an ad out to find my new roomie. I’m so nervous about interviewing people. I don’t need a Martha Stewart, I just don’t want a Roseanne Connor. I want to meet that housemate that I can actually be friends with. We don’t have to be best buds – I just don’t want to be constantly butting heads.
So all you buttheads out there – don’t bother. For both our sakes.

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