They said it couldn’t be done. They said I was foolish to try. They said it would throw off my poop schedule. No, I’m not talking about using all 49 swipes in one week allotted by the deceptively named “unlimited” meal plan. I’m speaking, of course, of sharing a room with a member of the opposite sex; or for the more detail-oriented readers among you, of two cisgendered friends cohabiting for the duration of one year.
How did this little experiment come to pass? It was one part Alternative Spring Break (hot tip: make friends with your site leader, you may end up living with them next year), two parts financial savings and just a dash of morbid curiosity. If you’re hoping to read about all the sexy pillow fights we had, prepare to be disappointed (just as I was). After all is said and done I’ve come away with a greater appreciation for the struggles of long hair, a clear answer to the question “Do girls fart?” and a renewed aversion to plain yogurt. Okay, that last one bears explanation. But I don’t want to give plain yogurt the respect of spilling any more ink in its name, even to rail against it with the vehemence of a Hitler Youth at an Earth, Wind & Fire concert.
Instead, focus your attention on these words of wisdom for how to negotiate the usually sturdy — but sometimes treacherous — path between Venus and Mars, should you ever find yourself shacked up with a friend who seems to have a completely different perspective on where the toilet seat goes when you pee.
What to do when you or your roommate has that special friend over? Ideally, you room with someone already in a relationship. That way, they end up sleeping over at bae’s place most nights, effectively leaving you to your own (de)vices. Another, less appealing option, is to agree simply never to bring anyone home. That’s right, I’m suggesting a mutual disarmament. Remember, you can still get crunk with warm bodies, just not in your own bed. It helps to live far from Grounds, so you can pull the “Oh, you live closer and we can get Bodos in the morning” card. Another option is a conditional arrangement, such that if you do bring home the bacon the guest has to stay for breakfast the next morning and meet the rest of the house. The clankiest silverware will be used, with the crunchiest food, and all house members will agree to maintain a very awkward silence for the duration of the meal. As a matter of fact, this very arrangement proved highly effective in my own experience.
Since we’re on the topic of slumber parties, we might as well address the chief concern most of you have. It was expressed to me in no uncertain terms by most of my male friends upon learning of my living arrangement. Interestingly enough, my female friends were supremely confident that avoidance of “an event” was doable. This difference of opinion was profoundly depressing in its predictability. Enough beating around the well-trimmed bush: you are running the risk that at some point the gravitational pull of your genitals will overpower reason and restraint, and by simple virtue of physical proximity, that proximity will be obliterated. You might f***.
While perhaps you two are “meant to be together” or whatever fatalistic romantic narrative you ascribe to, odds are getting funky fresh with your roomie is a poor decision. There are some easy measures you can take to avoid this eventuality. One method is not to become attracted to her in the first place. Watch her closely when she chews her food, mentally associate her face with the death of your childhood pet or pull a “Mean Girls” and start feeding her Kalteen bars. These are all demonstrable paths to disinterest. It goes without saying that the easiest way to ensure flaccidity/dryness is by not rooming with someone you find attractive in the first place. Take it from me: if you choose to room with a girl who is the picture of Aryan perfection, you’d best remember that gazing into those blue eyes is strictly verboten.
There is one more approach to the problem of roommate romance. It might be painful, but do your best to make yourself as unattractive as humanly possible. Stop chewing with your mouth closed, proclaim your bowel movements with the pride of a 3-year-old, and spout enough bigoted epithets to make Westboro Baptist look like Joel Olsteen. This method, although requiring a great deal of self-sacrifice, is highly effective because it hands control over the situation to your roommate. Even if you crack and make a move over bacon and eggs on a Sunday morning, you’ll just end up with egg on your face because she’ll be damned if she’s going to make out with someone who thinks it’s kosher to call young women “birds.”
Speaking of unappealing, let’s return to toilet talk for a moment. I’m speaking to the penis-laden among us out there: start sitting down on the toilet to pee. Several years ago I made the switch myself, for reasons involving sanitation and splashback. The stress this cheeky little change has avoided, when living with a fellow sitter, has been immeasurable. Not once during the course of the year did I have to get the Crisco and help my roommate out of the toilet into which she’d fallen on an innocent midnight trip to the commode. If you pee standing up, you will forget to put the seat down at some point, and the consequences will be dire. Don’t let something as minor as bathroom etiquette hasten the inevitable decline in your friendship that happens when you room with somebody.
This is where I leave you, dear reader; wondering if it really is possible to have a healthy relationship as roommates with a platonic opposite-sex friend. Since the year isn’t quite over, I can’t actually say it’s possible myself. Who knows, she might discover I’ve been wearing her clothes after she leaves for work in the morning. I might discover she already knows, and kind of digs it.
Peter Stebbins is a Humor writer.
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