It’s October. The tree canopies are thinning as coloured fragments float down towards the pavement and pumpkins appear instantaneously on your neighbours porches. You might be knee-deep in midterms reading this to distract yourself from an imminent deadline, or if you’re where I was two weeks ago, you’re having an identity crisis because holy shit, “what am I doing with my life?!”
If this applies to you, fear not! I am here to share the first of many anecdotes from several special ladies in my life whose wisdom has helped me navigate different niche issues in the cosmos of life at university. This issue’s subject: my brand new housemate Amelia.
Like a lot of second years renting houses for the first time, I met both of my roommates only a year ago, a risk for sure! A good first impression or sense of humour doesn’t make someone a diligent dish-doer or bathroom-sharer. So naturally, I felt a little apprehensive about signing a lease with two girls I’d only known for a few months, despite how fun our sushi dates and gossip sessions were. I am incredibly pleased to report what was essentially a shot in the dark happened to work very well in my favour. My roommates rock. I have no complaints. If anything, I have begun to find little joys in picking up on their random idiosyncrasies and speech patterns. You can always sniff out a good living dynamic when there’s a healthy dose of banter in place. So without further ado, let me introduce you to my roommate Amelia.
Amelia is, to put it lightly, a character. I remember on one of our first days living together she told us that before moving to school, her parents sat her down to gently remind her that everyone has their own little quirks at home, and to not let our habits get under her skin. Amelia’s response to this was, “I think I am going to be the weirdest one.” Now that we live together, would I say this is true? No… not with such a negative connotation. I’ll put it this way, Amelia likes what she likes. She has preferences. Ways of doing things. But not in a controlling way. In a passionate way.
We try to eat dinner together most nights, catered by our lovely roommate Claire, who somehow manages to be our stay-at-home wife and working woman/academic extraordinaire all at once. During these meals, we discuss anything from politics and religion to sex and fetishes at great length. And let me tell you, Amelia has opinions. Oh boy does she have opinions.
This is all to paint a picture for you that not only does Amelia care about a lot of things, but she expresses them shamelessly, every chance she gets. Amelia is the most active participant in her own mental landscape I have met in a long time.
I, on the other hand, find myself plagued by indecision a lot of the time, and that’s where the banter comes in. When Claire asks an organizational question about the spice cupboard or pantry, my instinct is to avoid asserting a position, likely in fear of unnecessary conflict, and my response is without fail: “I don’t care.” As you’ve probably guessed, Amelia has an exact idea of where the paprika should go. And this antithesis has become a running bit between us. Every time those three words escape my lips, I whip my head in her direction in anticipation of that classic eye roll, or in some cases, a “You should care!” (all in good fun of course).
But this got me thinking.
Maybe I should care more. Okay, not about paprika, but about other things. Like how I’m getting involved at school, or what I’m doing to move towards some semblance of a future I can’t quite envision yet. Maybe I should have opinions on things and write them down and tell them to people. I should stop bottling things up to be a people pleaser all the time. Maybe Amelia, in all her specificity, is onto something.
To quote one of my favourite bands right now, Broken Social Scene, (because yes, it is okay to have favourites), “Park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me.” I would argue the precepts from their glorious song “Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl” apply well into adulthood.
Do that thing! Join that club! Hell, care about where the paprika goes!
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