I moved into my dorm in August. Let me rephrase that: I moved into my hot, California, dorm room on the most humid day of the year.
Here is a schedule of events for me moving in: 1) I left my parents to park and raced to my room to get a good spot. 2) I started sweating after one of three sets of stairs leading to my dorm. 3) I stared in shock as Aubrey Plaza walked calmly out of my floor past me and kinda smiled at me and kinda looked like she could kill me, and I remained stoic per usual. 3) I called my parents and told them I’d just seen Aubrey Plaza (stoic, I know). 4) I finally got to the room.
The rest is per usual. I met my awesome roommates, watched the dads take moving furniture into their own hands, and tried to fall in love with my new home.
It was intimidating; moving into a new space with girls I’d never met and lofted beds (I’ve only fallen off once). It was new, and it definitely wasn’t home.
But here’s the good news…
After a couple of weeks, and one night of someone puking in the bathroom, you begin to love your roommates like a family. And you stop thinking your bed is going to break or you are going to roll off and die. Soon, your walls will be covered with pictures of the people from home, a F.R.I.E.N.D.S poster, and some feminist sayings- or maybe that’s just me.
Room 301 is not home to me. But that’s okay. It’s like the beach house I wish I could afford, except it’s small, cramped, and with limited closet space. But I like it just fine. I’m okay with washing my dishes in the bathroom sink and putting my headphones in when I Skype or listen to music.
301 is a pretty cool place.