Living Large

So my roommate and I are getting along great. No major arguments, no large grease fires, no larceny to speak of. We are both considerate of each others' personal space and beliefs, level of cleanliness, etc. I really have no room to complain, but those who know me know me better than that.

My rommate is a nice young woman, 22 years old from South Carolina. It goes without saying coming from the home/mission/BYU-Idaho background that graces my past 23 years that this is the first member of the opposite sex that I have lived with. (Of course my mom and sister don't count. Don't be silly.) "Interesting" perhaps explains it best, with "educational" and "experimental" close behind.

She's a very nice girl, and not necessarily unattractive. I mean, I am in no risk of throwing away a shot at eternal salvation or anything, but she is datable by most standards. But let me tell you a couple things about the totally platonic state of cohabitation in which I have found myself. A couple of observations, not complaints. No, no complaining here.

I am happy that I have had this opportunity to live with a woman before being married to one. Some of the things that would have shocked me during the first few months of living with my wife have now surfaced, which will take a few surprises away from the adventure called matrimony. And believe me, the last thing that I want in marriage are surprises, except for good ones like new sets of golf clubs and power drills for my birthday/anniversary.

For example, you and I know both know why God invented Saturdays: college football. It's a special day where we can get all of the sports out of our systems so that we are ready for Sunday. Well apparently this memo is just attached to our Y chromosones, boys. Let me tell you what has been broadcast on the new Samsung LCD television and HD cable box (both of which I bought specifically to watch college football, mind you) over the bast two saturday afternoons. Vanity Fair (shoot me now, I beg of you), Working Woman, several excruciating seasons of Sex in the City and Friends, Miss Congeniality (I will let that one pass because Sandra Bullock is my future bride), and Must Love Dogs. That's not right. It just ain't.

So instead of watching football, I thought I could at least vaccuum my room. But our vaccuum just doesn't work like the commercials have told me it should. Its little motor whirs away, but it absolutely sucks at sucking like it should. I flip it over to make sure there is nothing stuck in the unercarriage (such as a Snickers wrapper, stray kitten, etc.). All that I found was hair. Miles of hair, all wrapped up in the vaccuum that just wanted to get its job done. So much hair that the brushes on the plastic roll were not even visible. And people don't buy dogs because they shed. You don't want hair all over the place, get a dog and don't get married (or don't move in with a woman).

And the bathroom, boys, don't even get me started. My rooommate dies her hair red, and although I am not sure how the process works exactly, one step (apparently) also involves dying the grout in the shower the same color red. And when I walk in after she has applied makeup, every exposed surface (mirror, sink, toilet seat, tile floor, toothbrush, etc.) has a light dusting of that powdery stuff. You know, the stuff inside those plastic clams that women always carry in their purses. And I never feel totally at home with my pants down when I can see brushes and combs and curling irons peeking over the edge of the shelf above me.

In the end, what I have in a female roommate are all of the caveats of marriage with none of the benefits. You know, I still have to cook my own meals and my Friday nights are still lonely. For all intents and purposes, all I want back is Mark, Dan and Kyle, who didn't mind when I left the seat up.