COLUMN: Life Without Roommates

By Tobin Barnes
Last time, I talked about the joys of growing older.

Commented on some research from the University of Chicago that said that for every ten years that go by in our lifetimes, we become five percent happier.

Course, that’s on average. Some people, as we know, turn into monstrous grumps as they codger out, while others were card-carrying grumps from the beginning and have only become grumpier as more water goes under the bridge.

But overall, I’m buying the older-get-happier premise, if for no other reason than that old witticism we’ve all heard: Life begins when the kids leave home and the dog dies.

In our case, the cat just died just a couple weeks ago, but the dog’s hanging in there tough.

Yeah, it makes sense to me that as we age, we mellow out, maybe coming to terms with the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” as Shakespeare described life.

Added to that, there’s a few nasty things we don’t have to confront anymore.

For one, the older we get the less we are forced to live with other people; that is, other than our spouses.

Anyway, no roommates equals happiness.

But when younger, for academic or economic reasons, we find ourselves in disturbingly close quarters, making daily compromises with people who have made peace with alien lifestyles.

Roommates, forsooth!

My first one at college was a doozy. Thought I’d meet new people by allowing my name to be dropped into the roommate lottery.

Big mistake.

First off, the guy I drew smoked up a storm, but that wasn’t the main problem. Thanks to my old man’s three-pack-a-day habit, cigarette smoke was like mother’s milk to me. Naturally, I’ll probably live five years less because of that early domestic smog, but putting up with another smoker in a dorm room was just another day on the job.

My gripe on this guy was his bring-tears-to-your-eyes B.O.

He was so unkempt, even his sheets were disgustingly grey.

A friend walked into the room with me one day, and he immediately exclaimed, “Gees, what stinks in here?” At first he hadn’t noticed my roommate wallowing in his sty of a bed. Once his presence was established, nuff said.

Never saw that roommate go down to take a shower—not for one entire semester. Maybe he splashed himself with water once in a while, but I can supply no corroborating evidence in that regard.

His personal hygiene was somewhere between a caveman and Attila the Hun. Stinkiest sonofagun I’ve ever been around. After that semester I migrated to balmier climes down the hall.

Another couple of roommates I had would periodically go brain dead.

One time I bought a multi-pound, family-sized bag of salted peanuts in the shell. It was such a big honking bag, thought I’d have the ballpark experience for a good month or two, eating healthy human portions every now and then.

One day my other roommate and I were off somewhere, and when we got back, the coffee table was heaped several inches deep with peanut shells. Nearby a dead plastic bag slumped dejectedly on the floor.

My roommates evidently couldn’t eat just one—handful, that is. Didn’t even clean the mess up.

Yeah, good times. I’m sure you’ve had them as well.

So why dredge this up now?

Well, all this roommate stuff was inspired by an article I read about another neanderthal roommate published on rantfarm.net. I’ll tell you more about it next time.