It’s happening again. I’m about to face a decision that makes the toughest college student cringe. I’m figuring out my housing arrangement for next year.
As I spent the past weekend trying to figure out what to do next year, I reminisced about the past three years at college and the places that I temporarily called home.
Frosh year, the dorms were the natural place of residence, as my parents weren’t about to consider letting an 18-year-old loose with her own apartment. So instead, I moved into the tiny cell that I was supposed to call home for a year.
The dorms are funny places. Freshmen think they’re cool because they don’t know better, and it’s where they first get a taste of parent-less freedom. Late-night chats with hallmates, having dozens of people to borrow clothes from, and a never-ending shortage of potential study buddies is nice.

Of course, that’s after you overlook shared showers with slimy tiles (don’t forget your flip flops), starched-up food at Carson, people running through the halls screaming at 3 a.m. and those unforgettable roommates — who make you wonder if the housing department actually attempts to match you up with someone of similar interests or if they have it out for you because you turned in your application late. And don’t even think about having overnight guests…
Sophomore year was a time to move a rung up on the ladder of freedom and personal space. I moved into my sorority, ready for a fun-filled year of social activities, great food and a house that you could actually walk around in barefoot. And fun I had, but there were also endless distractions of late-night chats, TV shows and activities to keep me away from my homework, which is pretty necessary for school.
After I turned 20, the seemingly inevitable happened. I wanted my personal space. Two years of quarantine in tight corridors with oodles of other females and 18 years at home under parental supervision was enough. Dreams of my own bedroom, and gasp (do I dare wish for it?), my own bathroom filled my head. The luxury of a fridge filled with my food and a closet that no one could get into!
Fortune fell into my lap. I found “my own place.” I was so excited that I didn’t even bother to first meet my new roommate, who already lived there. But someone up above must have decided I’d suffered enough, because I got the best roommate I could have asked for; she’s also a journalism major, clean, mature, doesn’t have any scary habits or addictions and to top it all off, she’s a great cook.
So what is my problem, you may be asking? Well, my roomie is about to graduate. Suddenly, nightmares of brick dorm walls, slimy tile and “borrowed” clothes are again plaguing my sleep. And sleep! Sleep is something I’m getting now in the absence of 3 a.m. partiers.
I’m now standing before an abyss — Do I renew my lease? Get a house? Live alone? Should I venture back into the scary task of finding a roommate (only slightly less painful than finding a date on the singles scene)? Though I have lots of friends in the market for roommates, I’m smart enough to know that the best way to turn a friend into an enemy is to share housing.
And if the prospect of potential roommates isn’t scary enough, there is the legal aspect of finding housing. Unlike most decisions in college — where there is a highly visible exit option — housing agreements aren’t quite so flexible. Sign up for a class you don’t like? Drop it. Working a job you don’t like? Quit. Dating someone you don’t like? Dump them. But once you sign your name on the dotted line, you belong to your landlord.
Welcome to the land of hidden fees, unanswered work orders for broken appliances, deposits that won’t be returned until your own kids are looking for apartments and misleading cheery notices that promise free pizza in exchange for signing up for another year of the same crap.
Unable to come to a decision regarding my future living arrangements, I did what few college kids do: I called my mom for advice. And like always, she provided a suggestion I had never considered.
“Why don’t you move in with your aunt and uncle? They have an extra bedroom.”
Suddenly that free pizza is starting to sound pretty tasty. Where do I sign?