For the past four years of college I have shared a room. And I’ve come to one conclusion: I hate sharing a room. Hate hate hate, loath entirely. This is why:
- I have a DEATHLY FEAR of being watched while I sleep. I will mummify my face with blankets before I let someone see me.
- I’m not a morning person. In fact, if you see me in the mornings, don’t say anything, it will only fuel my disgust with life and with you.
- I need my own space. I grew up in my own space, and it’s the only place I can regenerate after a day surrounded by people. And you really don’t want to be around me if I don’t have some time alone.
In August, I inherited the corner room in my house. It is warm, sunny, and most importantly, private. Sure I still have 8 roommates, and yes my room has thin walls and an intricate ventilation system that carries my embarrassingly loud laughter to every corner in the place, BUT it’s still my own.
The most interesting thing about my room is the unwanted advantage it gives me to listen in on private conversations. A memorable experience was the time a boy had a complete breakdown outside my bedroom window. I just lied in my bed, unable to stop his passionate and tear-filled phone call to his best friend. But I agree with his buddy, his ex-girlfriend sounds like a real flooz.
Other than the unwanted Rear Window action I encounter, I really love my room. I love the knickknacks that have no purpose, I love my bed overflowing with feather pillows and blankets, but more than anything I love my bookshelves filled with my favorites.
Anyhoo, I now realize that I need my own room always. I don’t know what that means for my husband. I can’t help feeling that if the kings and queens of old could make separate sleeping areas work, so can we. Although I’d rather avoid the whole getting your head chopped off aspect of those marriages.