Roomies
When I was in the sixth grade, one dishwasher replacement progressed into a full-blown house renovation. In the throes of the developing plans, our parents made a deal: if we shared it, Georgia and I could have the old master bedroom. We agreed.
When I was in the sixth grade, one dishwasher replacement progressed into a full-blown house renovation. In the throes of the developing plans, our parents made a deal: if we shared it, Georgia and I could have the old master bedroom. We agreed.
The first few months were hard. My type A ways and her
whirlwind of chaos consistently clashed; fighting regularly ensued.
“For the love of God, pick up your clothes!” I would yell. “People
live here – I live here – not pigs! I cannot deal with it another day.”
Tape went down on the
ground. My half and your half. It might as well have been invisible. After an
ineffective week of border restriction, I pulled the tape, but dissension
continued. When PB Teen magazines started coming through the mail slot, I
spotted one page displaying a nook I liked, and low-budget redecorations began
at a fraction of the Pottery Barn price. Georgia would have no part, but she
certainly didn’t mind having friends over to goggle over it, rarely giving me
credit.
I don’t remember when breakthrough finally saved us. It was
almost as if, under these smaller living constraints, we had to relearn each
other in proportionately closer intimacy. If our room was a volcano of
fighting, at least the eruptions became less active. They were replaced with lights-out
pillow talks and fashion advice. In those first years together, our sisterhood
became doubled bonded by friendship. Sharing a room with Georgia was the greatest
blessing of my adolescence.
This made moving out one of the poorer decisions I made. Georgia
hit puberty kind of late, so the mood swings didn’t really set in until I was
in twelfth grade. Couple that with the late-in school arrival senior privilege
I gained (and thus later sleeping schedule) second semester, and I was ready to
have my own room again. After barely catching a conceding, “Fine,” from Rosa Marie to switch rooms one
morning, I proceeded to move all of my stuff back into the original room of my
childhood, never announcing to Georgia my intentions, much less my actions.
When my sisters came home from school that day, they were both shocked. I think
I hurt Georgia’s feelings, too. After a few weeks, I started missing her a lot,
and I asked if I could move back in. The upset emotions had not yet worn off,
and I was told I had to live with my (poor) decision. Fortunately, much good even
came from this bad choice. Once I left for college, Rosa Marie and Georgia
continued to share a room, becoming close friends also.
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| This pretty much defines our roommate relationship |
