Sexiled, Part II*

*This post was written over a year ago, but I just found it. It's a sequel to Sexiled, Part I, which you might want to look at first as a refresher. Enjoy!

Sex is God's joke on human beings. ~Bette Davis

Especially if you're the roommate, Ms. Davis. So, to let everyone know a bit about how my sexile turned out (I've been terribly busy since, and haven't had a chance to update except for my incredibly long 16 things list), I thought I'd post.

I ended up sleeping on the floor, in the smaller classroom (my dorm has two classrooms connected to the lobby). I had my backpack, which contained a change of clothes. I had a towel, because I snuck in to the shower at 7am through Kate and Natalie's room and had known I would need to bring my towel. I had one blanket. No pillow. It was cold, for the record. I used the kitchen sink to wash my face and brush my teeth, put my towel on the floor, put my head on my clothes, put on all the socks I had with me, and curled under my blanket to try and sleep. Sleep is a bit of a misnomer, actually. My feet were too cold to sleep. So instead, I sat on my towel and listened to my iPod and thought dark, bitter thoughts towards Lora and Blake, who I'm sure were quite cuddly and cozy and nobody wants to know what else, and thought longing thoughts about my bed. Which has a comforter. And blankets. And a mattress. And things to eat and drink. And non-fluorescent lights. Siiiiiigh.

Anyway. I got up early--rarely have I ever been so happy to get up--snuck a shower in my own shower, called my family and--thank heavens--LEFT. So Saturday and half of Sunday I spent Whitevilling with my family and driving (pretty easy road, really) and such. But I had to come back eventually, and I was NOT going to spend another night on the floor, so I sent Lora a message from the hotel letting her know that I would be back Sunday night, and she messaged back saying that was fine, and I went back and intruded.

Now, I love Lora, and I like Blake pretty well. I mean, they're engaged, so I might want to at least try to like my roommate's husband-to-be, right? He's a nice guy. Shorter than me, which is a bit awkward, but then, I'm taller than two of the guys on my hall and also my boyfriend's father, so I guess it's a common occurrence. Anyway. Well, it's a little awkward to be the third party even if you like the first two parties, especially if they're having a ticklefest on Lora's bed and I'm sitting over by my desk with my headphones in, humming and staring at the wall. The room was a disaster when I got back in. Like, disaster as in there were wrappers and water bottles and rumpled stuff all over MY side of the room...I walked in and calmly started to set things to rights. They're a disaster, the pair of them. If they ever breed, they'll have the sloppiest children ever. But I digress.

The main thing that got me was that Blake didn't go anywhere on Monday. No. He stayed Sunday night. And he stayed Monday night, too. In fact, I left for Thanksgiving break before he and Lora went home. And I really didn’t appreciate that, because you can’t clean and feel as if you’re thoroughly prepared for a vacation when your roommate’s boyfriend is snoring on her bed wearing nothing but orange boxers and making you feel generally uncomfortable because your roommate is in class all the time and it’s mostly just you and The Awkward Snoring Heap. But, you know, I could deal with that, really. It’s irritating to be trying to work on your Global project while The Gooey Lovebirds talk baby talk to each other and sit all over each other. Kind of breaks your concentration, you know? But it wasn’t that big of a deal.

The shirt thing, though, that irritated me. That REALLY irritated me. Oh, you’d like an explanation of what “the shirt thing” was? I’d be more than happy to oblige.

I got back from Whiteville Sunday evening, brought my stuff in, dealt with a little awkwardness, did homework, showered, slept, awkwardly did my thing in the morning while Blake slept, went to my religious studies class, stayed for ethics, went to Elon 101, lived through the rest of the night, woke up at 7am, went to my 8am International Studies class, came back, ate breakfast, ran down the hall to Global, came back feeling intellectually stimulated as usual, walked into my darkened room, and saw a men’s collared shirt messily folded over my laptop. This confused me. Not being a man, I do not generally wear men’s clothing. However, I attributed it to the messiness of my roommate and my temporary roommate, draped the shirt over the back of my chair and, turning back to open my computer, came face-to-face with a small sculpture composed of a white button sitting atop a nickel on the corner of my desk. This confused me more. I spent several minutes pondering whether or not I had left this arrangement for myself the previous night, and after a quick survey, concluded that no, I had nothing that buttoned with a button of that size and color, and thus the button was most assuredly not mine. Granted, I like buttons as a general rule, and upon finding one lying about would probably pick it up, but, having no recollection of finding a button for quite some time, much less balancing it upon a nickel and putting it on my desk, I rejected the idea that I caused this scenario entirely.

However, I was hungry, and eventually going to Octagon for lunch seemed much more important than pondering the mystery button. I left it there, and went and got a BLT.

When I came back, Blake and Lora were sitting on her bed in the semi-darkness (Lora and Blake are big fans of keeping the blinds closed. I am a big fan of keeping them open. When Blake’s around, I usually lose.)

“Hello,” I say.

“Oh, hi!” Lora says.

Silence.

I sit down at my desk and again encounter the coin-button formation on my desk.

Blake clears his throat. “Lora told me you could sew.”

“Yes, I can.”

“So I was hoping you’d sew that button back on for me.”

Lora, with a disgusting, adoring, babying look at Blake: “I told him it didn’t matter, it’s the one at the very top. You know, the one you don’t button anyway? But he’s all fastidious and stuff, and just insisted. Soooo…I told him you probably wouldn’t mind.”

Are. You. Serious. WAIT. Seriously? Really? They make my week really awkward and then tell me to sew the stupid button back on the stupid shirt? AND PAY ME A NICKEL????

“Um, no, I don’t mind. Just, um, a minute.”

And I got out scissors and thread and a needle, and sewed it back on—at some point, they left the room—and neatly folded the shirt, slipped the nickel inside the breast pocket, and placed it on Lora’s bed. Then went to fume. It wasn’t the fact that they asked me to fix the button, that’s fine. A bit irritating that they expected it, but fine, really. But the paying me a nickel to sew on a button? A dollar, sure. I’d even take fifty cents. Actually, I wouldn’t, because there are some things you do because you’re a nice person, and you don’t require payment for those things. But a nickel? That’s like, one-fifth of a gumball. It’s far more of an insult to expect somebody to do something for a nickel than to expect them to do it out of the goodness of their heart, because it cheapens their labor significantly.

It was like the Watergate of our relationship. Buttongate. I mean, we get along now, but not exactly fantastically. She drives me nuts, frankly. And I’m still kind of resentful about that nickel.

So, the moral of this story: Do not sexile your roommate. And if you do, do not expect her to happily sew a button back on your boyfriend’s shirt. And never, never allow nickels to enter the equation.