Fie on Lemons

When life hands you lemons, make limoncello! Or at least that's the way it's felt the past month. After my return from the Pacific Northwest, my living situation blew apart. Leaving my apartment of the past year-and-a-half at the bequest of my two female roommates (with the lone guy diplomatically remaining neutral), I've been bumping from place to place. I slept on a pull-out IKEA wooden box-cum-couch at my girlfriends' (which fortunately I'd convinced them to buy instead of two chairs), and also in one of their queen-sized beds. In a span of two weeks of visits to my other girlfriends' apartment, I stayed on an air mattress, a couch, and in both of their beds when they were gone. Once, after a party, I stayed on my friend's couch, and after another I even crashed in my brother's living room.

Before college, I envisioned these unplanned slumber parties happening with great frequency. I'd be out chillin' with my amazingly hip new friends and just sleep over -- a far cry from the extremely orchestrated sleepovers necessitated by growing up so far out in the country. In college I would become carefree, footloose, one of those whimsical people who would be having so much fun they would extend it through to the next morning. Instead, my freshman self realized that ain't no one going to unexpectedly sleep over in a dorm room, which almost of my friends inhabited. In my entire college experience I can think off-hand of only two occassions: I once stayed over at friends' who didn't live in a dorm, and another time two pals and I stayed up to watch the sun rise -- as befitting the erstwhile bohemian swing dancers we fancied we were at age 18.

So the "can I stay over tonight?" I've heard myself uttering this past month has surprised me with its ease of both utterance and acceptance. Friends pull out blankets, blow up air mattresses, drop off pillows at 8am they'd drunkenly forgotten to give me the night before. Roommates ask if I'm warm enough, pals cook me eggs or grilled cheese sandwiches. Watching "The Office" and drinking wine on a Monday night, they turn and say, "It's like a slumber party!" or "I'm so glad you're here."

Of course, the excitement of visiting for a night or two is quite different than actually living with someone, as I have been the past two weeks with a friend who has an office/extra bedroom. Since he was in Switzerland when I arrived, I spent the first week watching his TV and indulging myself in organizing his shelves (just a straigtening up, really. And, okay, some light dusting). Having him return was almost a shock. Not because I want to live alone (since I keep up a constant petulant whining about being lonely, once watching four solid hours of 'The Janice Dickenson Modeling Agency' to relieve the boredom), but because I'm not used to a mere one other companion. Not since the two years I spent with my first guy roommate has it just been me +1. Almost all the friends' places I've stayed at the past month have had at least two -- and sometimes even four -- other people. I'm used to high numbers of roommates: six other flatmates in Wales, a rotating cast of 6-7 in London, the three others for the past 1.5 years, plus loads of weekend guests.

It feel as if I've reverted to my beginning in Chicago, when I moved in on a wing and a prayer -- or rather, a week's notice I'd gotten a summer job. In my first three months I lived in three different places and held two different jobs, living alone for a third of that time. In the past month I've stayed at six apartments. The nine days I spent alone before my friend's return have been the first solo time I've had in three years. When I move into my new place I'll be alone again for almost three long weeks before my roommate and her two feisty cats move in. And then it's just me, her, Pig, Princess, and visits from her boyfriend (whom I introduced her to). Now that I write that, I think it will feel much more like it did in London or Wales. Never underestimate the power of two cats to demand all one's attention.

That said, I can't imagine cooking lasagne together for two hours with anyone other than my current Swiss roomie. I'll miss our time together, and even the time on my friends' couches/air mattresses. But in the long run, being back in my regular ol' bed will make me the happiest.

Now where's my limoncello?