No one REALLY likes having roommates – except for maybe those strange, clingy overdependent people with loneliness issues. But for us normals out there, if we could afford it, we’d be living alone. This doesn’t mean I don’t like my two current roommates. In fact, as far as roommates go, I have the cream of the crop. Both are totally easy going, and best of all, they have vices that make me feel better about my own. For example, Mike likes to hit the bottle, while Kate finds her release in pot. I enjoy both on occasion, but my carcinogen of choice is smoking. Still, if given the option, would I continue to dwell in this happy little household? No.
My desire to live alone is completely altruistic—why should others have to put up with my weird/annoying/disgusting habits? For example, if I lived alone, I could sneak an occasional smoke in the bath tub without feeling guilty. I could pee with the door open, have boys over, and live in a mess once in a while without feeling like a total asshole.
Roommate woes? Discuss them before resentment rears it’s drunken head
Last week, I came home to a “new” desk parked in my already-crammed living room. Fucking great. Before I had my shoes off, out bounced adorable, hippie-girl Kate, gushing about this sweet desk she picked up for $5 at a garBage sale. “Kate, this desk is a piece of shit, which is totally fine as long as it stays in your bedroom. Here I’ll help you move it,” is what I SHOULD HAVE said. Instead, I told her it was “cool” and a “total steal”, and left the room before I could hurt her feelings. It wasn’t long before the desk became yet another storage surface for junk mail/magazines/clutter, thanks to my tolerant nature and general laziness.
On Friday night, Mike (who also despised the desk but happens to share my passive tendencies), and I had a bright idea—the kind of idea so bright it only hits you after way too many martinis. “Let’s get rid of that disgusting desk right now before Kate comes home,” I said. “Good idea,” replied Mike as he taped $5 to the counter. So there we were—two drunks hardly able to walk, let alone lift a desk—hauling the piece of junk across the street to the dumpster. Problem solved right? Wrong!
The aftermath
On Sunday morning, I awoke with a screaming headache that was remedied by a sense of relief—the desk from hell was gone. Thinking Kate wasn’t home, Mike and I reminisced about the evening before, laughed about our drunken stupor and bragged about our awesomness.
Before long, I realized Kate was in fact home and likely heard everything. The best part? My best friend, accomplice and asshole roommate figured that out before I did and took off. Let’s just say Kate didn’t find the situation funny. I got a lecture, a door slammed in my face and that shitty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Hello conscience, where were you last night? Oh right, getting raped by Ketel One.
Now it was time for damage control. I trudged through the snow, which had fallen the night before (karma), and hauled the desk back in by myself, headache still raging. When Mike finally decided to show up, we went on a mission to find a small gift to say sorry. It worked —she loved the necklace, got her desk back and even moved it into her bedroom—but where did that leave me? Hungover, stiff from the impromptu workout and $40 in the hole. I could have achieved the same result if i had only asked precious Kate to move the desk into her room on day one.
From now on, I plan to talk about my feelings and lay off the booze…I’ll let you know how that goes.
