It’s time to confess to you what my friends have always known. I’m a messy roommate. In the doorway to my Landings cubicle, there are several scattered library books from a project on LGBT youth. The top of my dresser is the home of assorted change, two boxes of cookies and perhaps one or two socks. Papers, half of them from last semester, lie cheek to cheek with empty wrappers. Not to fear, a ghastly smell will not meet you in the event of a visit.
You may wonder what my room has to do with your life and, in most cases, I’d say nothing. I’m a strong, independent Anthropology major. I do what I want. But right now, I think this is a relatable experience. As we get down to the wire, with summer and, at least for some of us, graduation in sight, it is natural for many of us not to give copulations anymore. A pack of pens may rest next to your pajama bottoms. Your favorite hat may find its way onto the television. And all because you’re more worried about your grades than what your parents would think.
However, for some of us, myself included, the state of nature is a year-round occurrence with little exception due to the occasional cleaning. Some would attribute it to personality types. There are the organized, rigidly scheduled people and those who aren’t with all the variety that brings. These are also theoretically the ones patient enough to wait for the entire sentence in a conversation or look for the easiest way out. They’re also frequently late. I’ve recently thought this was part of my perpetually disheveled room, a mass of repeated actions that become a disposition.
However, it’s also the stereotyped habit of young people, and often young men, to have a messy room. Some say that the ideas of responsibility and cleanliness aren’t something you’re born with. Often, even if they’re reinforced, a young person is thought to revert to junky places at the drop of a hat. Though it is often not the case, and many students I know are very clean; college kids will often fall into disarray. Early on, it might have something to do with the disconnect from home, but later, I suspect it has more to do with the rush of college life or tolerance for the state of things.
When asked if I can find anything in my room, the answer is usually yes. I remember where things are from my pouch of tobacco to my dress shoes to the three dollars on top of the luggage bag in my closet. In a sense, it is an organized mess. The only catch is placement is dog-eared by time and not a neat arrangement of space. I can tell with some certainty that one night, coming in late, I put a book on my shelf and it has since become covered by a pile of papers. But this brings up another point, the fact that I’m a night owl roaming the streets of Farmville and coming back from the library at every sort of hour. My room is a place to sleep and a safe storage box where I can trust everyone associated. I use my room, but I hardly live in it.
Often, to relax, I’ll stretch out on a couch in the living room. I like space and light and the television I would rather not have in my room. I like to greet people that might come in or my roommates passing by. I like having conversations that my room is too small to hold.
When compared to my roommate across the way, the picture is completely different. His room is the mosque of his solitude. He lives in it, plays games in it, takes the commons area light and places it in his corner. It’s pretty clean, and when he leaves it for class or RTA calls, usually it is with a grumble and sometimes with a grin. It may be related to our differing personalities. He’s a Chemistry and Physics major, a fan of the straight and narrow: clean cut and fit. But I think, no matter how differently our brains act, it has a lot to do with how we’ve grown to treat our rooms. In the beginning of the year, we both started out with tidy rooms, but, through the shifts of time and activity, his stayed and mine didn’t.
Last week, my roommate and I took the time to clean the restroom. For the faint of heart, I won’t go into too much detail. However, the restroom has stayed clean and some of the habits that led to its original downfall haven’t happened again. I’d like to think we’ve learned, but I think it has more to do with the fact that we like walking in, looking at the sparkling white counter and wafting in the light, lingering scent of Pine-Sol.
