Since college, I’ve moved around. I’ve lived everywhere from a pint-sized East Village dwelling where I became an expert in throwing drink coasters at mice, to a snowy mountaintop apartment in Maine where I routinely slept in a sweatshirt, hat and fleece pants (ugh). After the horror of sharing a bathroom with 20 people I didn’t know during my freshman and sophomore years, I made it a point, no matter where I was, to either live alone or with a two roommates at the most.
Even in Maine, where I would often go entire nights without seeing a soul (except the deer who would sometimes stare creepily through my living room windows), I reasoned that the loneliness was better than dealing with piles of other people’s dirty dishes or toothpaste spit in the bathroom sink.
Fast-forward to last October, where, for a multitude of life-changing reasons, I decided to move into a house in Colorado with six – yes, six – roommates. All of them women.
Oh. I was afraid.
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