Monday, May 6, 2024

Close quarters

February 20, 2012

Kate Jacobson

I’ve lived in a lot of places.

I’ve lived in a house with a colorful cast of characters in East Lansing, I’ve lived in an apartment in Columbus, Ohio, with three complete strangers (in a place that hates the entire state of Michigan, no less) and I’ve lived in the dorms by myself and with other people.

And of all the places I’ve lived, I found I liked living in my current apartment the best. I live with three of my best friends, and though our apartment is tiny, we’ve decorated it in a way that is unique to us, we share responsibilities when it comes to chores and we’ve made great friends with our neighbors.

I used to not be a big fan of apartments. Mostly because while I was living in Ohio, it was loud and strange to me. I lived with three girls who went to Ohio State, which isn’t at all like I thought it would be, and our neighbors below us were loud — so loud you could hear some questionable things coming from the walls.

Apartment living can seem like a drag because you’re stuck in such close quarters. Not only are you and your roommates crammed in together, you have to deal with everyone else living around you. Our downstairs neighbors, whom we affectionately call “boombox,” can be extremely loud sometimes (hence the name). But every time we’ve walked downstairs and told them to please turn it down a notch, they’ve been more than understanding.

Yes, there was the one time our apartment got broken into. Our overall complex was not very secure, and our wooden doors looked as though Chuck Norris drank a forty and round-house kicked the door in. The invader didn’t take anything, just riffled through our underwear drawers, but nonetheless, it was a frightening experience.

There’s been broken hand rails that fell victim to a party held by someone in our complex, and the broken glass strewn about in the parking lot. There’s been passed-out freshmen lying in front of our apartment door, randoms just waltzing right in on a Friday night. The Internet is shoddy, the smells are questionable and it’s so hot in there that it feels as though we’re dead center in the Sahara desert.

But the fact of the matter is this: I love living there. Despite all of the downsides to it, I live with three of my best friends in the entire world. We like to watch Dance Moms, drink wine and bake (or, in my case, burn) cookies. We like getting up on Saturday mornings and playing loud music, dancing around like crazy people. When I come home from work at night, I can always expect an invitation to go next door and watch some TV.

It’s different from a house because there are so many other people to meet. It’s different from the dorms because you have your own space. But it’s a small community within a building. I love calling that place home.

My roommate Megan and I were reflecting on our apartment just a few days ago. As we sat there in the blazing heat, looking at the dirty dishes piling up in the sink and hearing the bass from boombox down below, we told each other that we wouldn’t have it any other way.
And we turned on Dance Moms and had a nice breakfast.

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