Communal living requires that one make certain sacrifices. For example, in the spirit of friendship and peace one might be forced to endure hours at a time of Barbra Streisand warbling such standards as "People" and "Second Hand Rose," or watch silently as closet space is usurped by one's cohabitators.
Generally speaking it's best to be accommodating so that home doesn't become equivocated with hell. When it comes to climate control, however, there's no room for compromise. If your dwelling doesn't meet your temperature needs, you're so uncomfortable you might as well be in a war zone.
My first indication that trouble was on the horizon for my roommate and I came during those few bitterly cold days in December. Everywhere heaters were humming as people drank mugs of hot chocolate and got cozy. Everywhere but my apartment, that is. My roommate complained of the heat and opened all the windows. Figuring she must be running a fever I put on an extra thick sweater, a scarf and offered her some tea. More temperate days followed and my roommate's illness seemed to disappear.
Returning from Winter Break to an intense chill nearly a week before the rest of my apartment mates, I turned on the heat so that when I came home from the 30 degree weather there was a marked change in temperature. For five glorious days I lived happily in a heated apartment. My happiness was short lived, though.
Upon the return of my roommate, the warmth was sucked from my life. The first thing she did when she walked in was turn off the heat and open a window.
"It's so hot in here," she exclaimed. "How can you stand it?"
Ten minutes later the entire apartment felt like a tomb. Another half an hour passed and I began to see my breath.
"Don't you think it's kind of cold?" I asked, hoping that maybe we could close a window.
"No. It's much better in here than it was before when you were breeding bacteria," she said.
"Jen, it's like 30 degrees out. I don't think that it's unreasonable to have a window closed," I said.
Wordlessly she closed the window and for the rest of the night she periodically fanned herself and made pointed comments about the "oppressive heat." Meanwhile, I was freezing to death. The shut windows were helpful, but the lack of heat was making my extremities tingle. We seemed hopelessly deadlocked in a war for control of the temperature.
A week later I complained to my friend Alicia.
"I have to wear a hat and gloves to bed. It's so cold," I lamented. "It's like being in the final circle of hell, where the devil is in the frozen lake."
Alicia rolled her eyes at my hyperbole.
"At least you're not going to be getting a $500 utility bill. My roommate has the stupid thermostat up to 80. I turn it to 65 whenever I get the chance, but she always sneaks it back up. I have to walk around the apartment in my underwear and a tank top. We're not living in the Caribbean, you know. It's January, it gets cold."
"It doesn't have to get cold inside. Central heating was invented so man wouldn't have to worry about surviving the winter anymore," I informed my friend.
"Well, you don't have to be so spoiled that you waste exorbitant amounts of energy and money on recreating a tropical climate in your living room," she countered.
Maybe Alicia was right. Maybe my roommate was just economizing when it came to the heat. I decided not to complain about the cold for awhile. Several days later the blizzard hit and chilled the air considerably with its snow and 30 mile-per-hour winds. After trudging through the uncomfortable conditions to class and back home, I turned on the heat in an effort to thaw out. My roommate returned home, shook the snow from her boots, removed her coat and plopped herself on the sofa. It only took a few minutes for it to begin.
"God it's hot in here," she said.
"Actually I'm a little chilly," I challenged.
"How can you possibly be cold? I'm sweating over here."
"You're obviously having hot flashes. It's fine in here."
She went into the bedroom, closed the door and opened a window. I found her half an hour later lying on her bed in a tank top with a fan blowing on high. The window was still open and the wind was blowing some snowflakes into the room. She looked miserable.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
"No," she whimpered. "I think I'm going through menopause."
"You're not going through menopause," I assured her. "You're 20 years old."
"But I'm hot all the time."
"You probably just have a high body temperature or something."
"There's eight inches of snow outside and I'm in front of a fan. I'm like a middle-aged woman," she said.
"You're right, it's definitely menopause."
She shot me a dirty look, but dissolved into laughter as I shut the window with a loud thud. That night I slept in my flannel pajamas, under two blankets and a comforter, a fleece hat pulled over my ears. She slept in her underwear in front of a fan which circled air from a half opened window around the room, a blanket angrily discarded on the floor next to her bed.
Apparently, it was just too hot.
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