I’m 26. That’s probably an age where you’re supposed to be ditching the whole roommate idea and getting a place of your own, but I’m seriously in love with my living situation right now.
I’ve had my fair share of roommates. There was Libby my first college roomie who was one of those floor mom types who tended to everyone. Then there was a group of girls my senior year. Thrust together into a suite on campus, we hit it off, and spent a year on a crazed campaign to do everything that we ever wanted before college ended.
I even cohabitated well with my randomly assigned grad school roomie. Sure, she came with her fair share of baggage — marginally abusive boyfriend, affinity for marijuana — but she also shared my unbridled love for Bravo. We did pretty well for the year.
By the end of grad school, I was thinking I could get along with just about anyone. That is, until I moved in with Heather.
When you move into Heather’s house – she owned it, I rented — you are given a list of rules. A long list. Pages, single-spaced. And she is not kidding.
When you live with Heather, you take off your shoes at the door. When you live with Heather, you never leave a single item out of place. When you live with Heather, you can have only one guest per week. When you live with Heather, you hate your life.
Once, I accidentally melted one of Heather’s spatulas. I replaced it within hours with a sturdier and more expensive one, but I was quickly informed that it was the wrong brand, size and color. I cut Heather a generous check for the hunk of plastic, told her to shove off and moved out shortly thereafter.
Free of the roommate from hell, I was determined to live on my own. I rented the only hole in the wall I could afford in podunk Perry County. It looked like a slum from the exterior, but inside it was my cozy little home — “my” being the most important part.
The freedom was nice for a while. No more passive-aggressive landlord/roommate texting me twice a day to blame me for the errant footprint on her pristine white carpet. But the reality is, I’m just not a living alone type of girl. I like someone to talk to when I get home and someone to keep me company when I’m watching Bravo. And I ended up relying too much on my boyfriend for company.
Enter roomie Dan.
Around the time that my lease was ending, Dan — a friend of a friend — had just bought a place in midtown Harrisburg and was looking for someone to rent the spare bedroom. I was a little wary of going back to the landlord/roommate situation like the one I had with Heather, but I seriously couldn’t have taken a better gamble.
I love to cook. Dan loves to bake. I love sports. Dan loves sports. Dan’s not going to have a cow if I wear my shoes upstairs (hardwood floors), and he owns a multitude of spatulas (former Williams-Sonoma employee.) It’s perfection.
So I know I’m 26, and I’m supposed to be doing my own thing. But I’m seriously loving what I have going on here. I’m also loving the cost. I’ll move in with some boyfriend eventually, but he’ll have to pry me away from my happy little row home with roomie Dan.