My Empty Room

My doting roommate left me for the weekend to take care of myself while she watches her skin fry in Palm Springs and learns how to converse with middle school children, something I have personally never achieved. It’s outrageous really how little I accomplish on my own. I am rather convinced as of this current time that were I not bunking with a hyper-anal film major who has more things to do at any given time of the day than hairs on her head, that I would in all probability sit at my sullied desk watching Arrested Development re-runs and touch up my toenails for the five-trillionth time. Which I do anyways, irregardless if she’s in the room or not, but when her presence is here, I usually get something hurled at me when I slack off, sadly quite often. Books and shoes, generally. The books are killer, especially the hardback ones. Thank God we finished Plato last year, I might have an aneurysm.

Now, while the societal prospects on Biola’s campus are infinite, sometimes the Holly Homemaker gene kicks in and there is absolutely nothing I desire more than to stand over one of the six communal bathroom sinks with a glistening pool of soapy suds before me overflowing onto the power-washed tile. I am the type of person who pays the extra 30 cents to have my dish soap smell like lavender rather than the lemony perversion of Pine Sol. I am not snobby. I just would like to remember my dishwashing experience as one that was enriching rather than dreadfully mundane. Sadly, I have not at this point fashioned a proficient and engaging way to dispose of the garbage, which is why there are currently three pleasantly plump trash bags seated pitifully by the door.

While we are on the subject of all things domestic with a little What-I-Did-Today, I feel an obligation to mention that I am the happiest person alive when I’m grocery shopping. First of all, I have to do it alone or it doesn’t count. Second of all, I like baskets more than carts. I enjoy walking down every single aisle, even the motor parts and Spanish seasonings ones. I enjoy contrasting prices of milk, fat content of peanut butter, how many minutes it actually takes to microwave the pasta-in-a-bag, and what fruits are on sale. I like feeling which peaches are the firmest, smelling the $2.99 flowers (I actually bought some today. They’re the same color as sunsets in back of my house.), reading the headlines on the tabloids (apparently Angelina wants to get knocked up again and it’s really affecting her relationship with Brad…), seriously consider buying a cake (I always think about it and even pick one out, but I never purchase one.) and smiling at the cashier. Going grocery shopping is a Zen experience for me. No matter what it always makes me feel grown up. I can remember when I first got my driver’s license, the first thing I wanted to do was go grocery shopping for my mom. I never actually did, I went to the movies. But it was a nice idea.

So I come home from the grocery store, painful red lines on my hands from carrying the flat of spring water, put my milk on the fridge, set my new indoor/outdoor chrysanthemums on the already crowded windowsill, and take a look around me. I see dozens of schoolwork related projects around, stacks of books with post-it tabs sticking out indiscriminately, binders containing guidelines for an assortment of projects, and of course the mischievous sprite that is my planner, glaring at me from my desk. Come to me, it beckons. Come glance inside at the color coded goodness that are my dated pages. See how much you have sold your soul to your homework, it taunts. I stick in a drawer, and then pick yesterday’s underwear off the floor and entertain. After all, Man Hours only come around a few times a week, and I have a dear friend who needed convincing that Hope is far more agreeable than Stewart. We had a fair chat, I bid him adieu, and turn again to the room.

While I could still vaguely hear the stifled bleats of my spiraled planner, I honed one of my many secret borderline-maniacal skills: the art of being tidy. There are many different degrees of this lunacy, the more mild side being picking up clothes and actually putting them in my hamper—a feat—the more severe being on my hands and knees under my desk with the vacuum and some Clorox wipes. I’m afraid this latest attack tended to lean more to the severe.

It was then that I chose to indulge my feminine side, meaning I stripped down to my underwear, put on the most depressing and sappiest movies Syd and I collectively own, and had a good cleansing cry. People underestimate the power of a cleansing cry. It takes the edge off, much like a stiff drink, with the exception that this is perfectly holistic. So I sit in my little nest on the futon, pillows lumped far and wide, quilt swathed around me like a baby-blue cocoon, damp tissues littering the ground as I sniff and choke a little bit on my tears. Again, good cry. Especially when you haven’t cried for ages. It’s great because at first you’re weeping for the characters, then you realize it isn’t about the characters at all, in fact, you don’t know what it’s about at all, but it feels too healthy to stop. And then you do, and everything just seems cleaner. Not you of course, you look a fright what with the fact that your mascara has changed from a solid to a liquid and made its way down your neck in an unseemly fashion.

It is then time for tea. It’s a most comforting tradition for me to make tea. I like to stand in the middle of my room just stirring the teabag around, making sure the sugar dissolves. I sip and survey my domain. And what I see is good, because it is mine.

But there is something to be said about the home and a life of domesticity. While I may have set myself upon a track whose prize is a lofty position in a career that snugly suits me, I frequently wonder what it would be like to simply keep a home. What would it be like to throw out my apprehensions for the future and basically downsize my life to fit within four walls? As a feminist and career-oriented individual, I regret to inform you that it is relatively tempting. With a society so driven by those monsters of money and fame, a-two-for-one-make-a-buck world, where the road to success is extensive and tricky, with no guarantee of security, living off a husband’s paycheck where I spend the day concerning myself with the care of my family and home sounds, if not idyllic, at least cushy. I don’t actually believe that the life of a homemaker is effortless; I’m simply saying that I understand the appeal. Finding joy in routine and having a place to maintain and call your own, even if it is a pitiful little box you’re attempting to home-i-fy by means of convoluted coffee makers, translucent dish sets from Target, and lively throw pillows may actually be just as important as venturing out and making your mark. I didn’t mean this so be sappy and inspirational, I’m just obviously feeling domestic and I use this as a justification for not doing pull-questions and reading Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca. So…there’s that. I’m going to clean out the fridge now, I think.