As an avid lover of Friends, I never thought much about the whole adult roommate situation. Not only was it financially responsible, it provided ample opportunities for pajama parties or locking one another in an oversized box. Also, the show told me it was smart to be BFFs with your across-the-hall neighbors. Because if you are only kind of friends, it gets awkward since you aren’t able to lie about plans. But if you are best friends, you don’t mind if they drink all your coffee and raid your closet.
IRL, however, the practice is far sketchier; life has not turned out to be the sitcom I’d imagined. Since I’ve moved in, every resident on the floor has cleared out, leaving zero opportunities for across-the-hall besties. Only one friend has wedding-dressed-up to drink on the couch, and instead of being called “financially responsible,” I’m called a “closet lesbian.”
On account of my roommate being a girl.
Somehow when you go from living with your sig. oth. who is a man to platonically living with someone who is not, it’s because you’re no longer into dudes.*
Then each time it’s followed with a prompt, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” as a blanket apology to the entire gay community. Just in case they are listening – which they probably are.
The Great Lesbian Divide
Somewhere in the past four years, the invisible line of when it’s socially acceptable to live with a chick was crossed. As if it were the International Date Line of sexual preference. And it launched me into a reality where I am not in control of my own connotations.
Like how my roommate and I take turns cooking dinner, go on evening walks, have both recently chopped off all our hair, and drive to weekend brunches in a Subaru and matching flannels. If that doesn’t scream, “I’m straight,” I don’t know what does.
Meanwhile all I want to do is live my life in a world where I’m not falsely outed on a weekly basis. Can’t a girl just chill and wait for a man to appear? (Preferably out of Urkel’s permanent version of Boss Sauce that allowed him to go from Urkel to Urquelle – so he comes with minimal baggage.) And in the meantime enjoy my own personal sitcom? Where there are solid bouts of maxi-dress Mondays, rom coms, and tanning sessions that are paired with convos on trashy TV?
* Except that I am totally still into dudes.