It seems every New Yorker has their crazy roommate story. It’s a right of passage to live in the city. The really unlucky or just-out-of-college newbies to town end up in shares. That means you share a bedroom.
Roommates are the best way to get around using a broker – a practice that should be illegal, if you ask me. We look on Craigslist, maybe stop by or have a phone call with potentials before signing a lease. Then we show up with a movers or just a few suitcases and dose of optimism.
A week or two later, we know if we made a good decision or if our judgment was clouded by the polite doormen and promise of in-building laundry or a monthly rent payment less than four digits (before the decimal point).. My first roommates were lottery-winning great. We got along well. If I was in my room with the door closed, they left me alone and vice versa. They never stole my mail or ate my food. They did an adequate job of cleaning up after themselves. They were good to chat with. They let me in when I forgot my keys. All good qualities in a roommate.
My second roommate story doesn’t have such a happy ending, as evidenced by the fact that I gave notice of intent to move out 33 days after I moved in, and I should have done it sooner.
Still when out-of-town friends say, “I could never live with a roommate,” my New Yorker pals and I give each other that knowing look. Anyone who doesn’t live here couldn’t know why we put up with randoms found on a website.
I’m a journalist, content strategist, doting auntie, amateur bobsledder, fitness enthusiast, and wannabe health nut (who loves chocolate and pizza too much to fully commit). I don't want you to think my life is perfect. It's not.