HE SAID:
Sometimes people ask how many roommates I have. I could answer that question technically, but that would effectively be a lie.
I’ve signed three apartment contracts in my collegiate career, and every single document has contained at least one phantom tenant.
It never fails that I split rent with people in relationships.
And it’s not those get-to-know-each-other dating relationships that shift throughout the semester. No, these duos have been so committed that I come home from class and feel like I should put my exam grades on the refrigerator for them. Their foresight suggests eternity, and I might as well be their test child. (I just wish they packed me school lunches.)
However, sharing square footage with an extra resident isn’t necessarily an inconvenience — or a total one, I should say.
If you’re lucky, the companion is fun. They have a vibrant personality and want to contribute energy to the dwelling. An occasional belly laugh might find its origins with them, or they at least contribute “Flight of the Conchords” to the DVD rack.
It’s even possible they’ll cook a delicious meal and offer you the extras.
But that’s one seemingly pleasant advantage that can in fact turn things sour.
Whipping up a glamorous “Top Chef” feast is nice, yes, but it inherently yields a volcanic pile of dishes. Just to rinse off a spoon thereafter, you must transform your arm into a noodle to slide by the pots and pans. And often those dishes end up rotting for days until simply walking into the kitchen makes your knees buckle.
As you scrub away at their mess, you suddenly wish the candlelight by which they ate would have tipped over and caught the dinner table on fire.
Or maybe they actually dined on the couch, a practice that can morph into another grievance.
Inevitably they clean their plates, afterwards submitting to a food coma. Sprawled out for hours stacked like pancakes, the two are one giant impediment to your enjoyment of the living room. If you want to catch a television show, you have to do so with 20 toes prodding at your thigh. Or if you happen to have a love seat, you ironically migrate to that.
Even then as you watch that NBA game, the bounces of the basketball are interrupted by the pecking of lips. Then you miss a monster slam dunk because your eyes were busy rolling.
Skunked out of your own entertainment hub, maybe you decide to take the shower you skipped in the morning.
Of course, just opening the curtain causes an avalanche of bottles, excess products which are additions of the partner. Then depending upon their hair style, you find yourself wading in two inches of water since their locks clog the drain. Stepping out, you have to pick their still-damp towel off your own.
As you charge from the bathroom prepared to curse their stupid loofah, they have magically disappeared. It’s rare time with your roommate, so you cherish the moment.
Soon it’s time for bed, though, and you wish each other goodnight. But before you can even hit that first REM cycle, a turning deadbolt and creaking door wake you.
While the natural response might be to grab the bat in your closet, you know the intruder is just the sweetheart returning to spoon.
And it’s very unnerving if they have a key. If a breakup ever occurred, all of your material possessions are potentially at the mercy of their wrath.
Yet that’s where my complaints sacrifice some validity. I’ve hardly contributed a thing to any abode.
I think the largest piece of furniture I’ve shared is an end table. I’ve reaped the benefits of very generous families, so how cranky can I be about a relationship (with chronic annoyances)?
While I might grumble as I rinse the companion’s dirty bowl, I realize I couldn’t eat my off-brand cereal without that plastic china. And without the sofas — however cramped—we’d wreck our backs sitting Indian style on the chilly floor.
Well, I’d be the only one cross-legged and cold. The inseparable couple would likely use every blanket to build a fort from which their coos and giggles gush like romantic vomit. And that doesn’t count as “getting a room.” A solo lease is more like it.
SHE SAID:
A common occurrence in college: You and some friends live together, and then one of your roommates has a significant other, and somehow you end up sharing a domicile with someone who doesn’t pay rent.
In all honesty, I was always the perpetrator.
I was that girlfriend who was always over day after day, night after night.
I was that pervasive chick who didn’t contribute to bills or rent, as I had my own place across the street. This was an ongoing trend for nearly two years of my collegiate career.
But I’m not proud of it.
I had cohabitated with not only my boyfriend at the time, but with another couple, and then one of our male friends.
Even after my disastrous breakup with Mr. H, I’m still extremely close with two of the four — Brian, the formerly single one, and Tracy, the girl who legitimately lived there (unlike me.)
Last week, I begged Tracy to forgive me for never buying toilet paper or paper towels for the apartment all those years ago.
She shrugged it off.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve never even thought about it.”
Despite Tracy’s reassurance, I still kick myself for never buying toilet paper — three years later.
But fortunately, I chose to cohabitate with amazing people.
Not only did we get along stunningly when we were all together, but I’d have fun with them when my significant other wasn’t around. Tracy and I would move out the coffee table and she’d teach me how to dance.
Tracy’s then-boyfriend and I boogied to Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September” on loop for hours. Brian and I would have in-depth discussions about the paranormal, spirituality, Marvel superheroes and “Dragon Ball Z.” (Don’t ask.)
We had so much in common outside of our personalities — even if it was just our love of turning on the black lights and dancing to terrible ’90s electronica for a “members-only” shindig.
But even though I had an amazing experience being the “invasive” girlfriend in that situation, it would have been different had we not gotten along so well.
If I had been the touchy-feely, demanding, pay-attention-to-me type of girlfriend, I’m sure things would have been a lot different. For example, when Brian decided to briefly date a dramatic girl who hated beer, video games, hours of chatting and almost everything else we liked, a bomb hit the easy-going atmosphere of the apartment.
The official roommates decided not to tolerate her (even Brian), but thankfully they continued to let me have my unlimited pass.
The rule is if you’re going to be around your significant other’s roommates for an extended period, you have to keep a lot private.
Mr. H and I took great pains to spare his roommates from our “coupleness,” even if it made us appear completely celibate.
Months after I began to stay the night regularly, one of the roomies finally made H and me kiss in front of all of them because they didn’t quite believe we actually touched each other.
Mr. H and I never “dated” in the apartment when his roommates were home, because we always made sure to include his roommates in whatever we were doing — cooking, watching a movie, “Mario Kart” or just a discussion.
It was the same with the other couple living there as well.
If we wanted a true date, we went out, went to my one-bedroom apartment, or we would go into H’s room and shut the door.
By keeping our relationship more or less sequestered, we spared our roommates from irritation and disgust.
But because I was blessed with an ideal “roommates-in-relationship” situation, I’m not going to tell you that it’s the best decision for everyone.
On the contrary, if you don’t like your significant other’s roommates and you don’t want to include them, then see your honey outside of their apartment. And also, just try to keep the roomies from any PDA awkwardness.
Chances are that they didn’t sign up to see you and their roommate swapping spit.
A final word of advice: Always remember to re-stock the toilet paper supply.