Kansas State University - Royal Purple Yearbook (Manhattan, KS)

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Seeking solitude in a matchbox by Melinda Melhus The alarm rings. I hope I ' m still dreaming. 8:45 am. I roll over. The alarm is still ringing. Stiffly. I roll out of bed and head for the door. My bare feet stumble over a stray pair of tennis shoes and like a domino, my body falls into a bicycle, sending it to the floor with a crash. Be quiet and let me sleep. the muffled voice of my roommate echoes disgustedly from under her pillow. Well if you wouldn ' t leave your stuff . . . Oh what ' s the use. I straighten the bike, rub my bruised shins and head for the bathroom down the hall. As if adjusting to classes, masses of people and waiting lines wasn ' t enough. I have to spend the next nine months of my life living in a room half the size of my family ' s bathroom at home. Not only do the closets. drawers, and shelves have far less space than I need, I have to share them with person who ' s practically a stranger. Even so, I ' m beginning to note the advantages of a limited amount of space. Because inventory is so small, I ' d know immediately if anything had been lost or stolen. And if I can ' t find an item, it ' s probably in or under something larger. My roommate lost a t-shirt last week. She finally found It between the wall and her mattress when she was looking for the green blouse she had lost the week before that. The blouse turned up several days later stuffed into one of her boots. Tipper, the goldfish, has the most space. We finally took him off the stereo and hung his bowl from the ceiling. He didn ' t appreciate being sloshed every time we chang- ed an album. But in spite of its matchbox qualities. our room is the central meeting place for the entire corridor when earth- shattering events occur—Nancy gets flowers and it ' s not Valentine ' s Day. Sally gets a blind date to the formal or everyone flunked their biology tests for the second time. And so they congregate on beds, desks, and the window ledge—and I wonder how I ' ll get out of here to study for tomorrow ' s test. Privacy has never meant so much until now. At home, I could slam my bedroom door and my seclusion went respected and uninvaded; but now I can ' t get into my room for all the bodies. There ' s a party going on next door while I try to sleep or study. Someone wants pizza and the doughnut crowd wants to make a midnight run. Stereos blare around the clock, piercing tissue-thin walls and will my roommate ' s boyfriend ever leave so I can get back in my room? Desperation strikes. Scared but determined, I walk alone after dark to the library. After 11 pm, and I study in the laundry room to the hum of a lone dryer. Or I wait until 2 am. when the noise finally dies down, and read to dim lamplight, turning pages ever so quietly. Crying is the most difficult thing to accomplish. A phone booth or an empty stairwell affords escape and a bathroom stall will suffice. Riding up and down In the elevator is the last resort. Such close living has taught me to share, but more im- portantly, it has taught me to respect one ' s need for privacy and space. Someday, when I have a home of my own, I ' ll probably look back at these days and laugh. Then I ' ll complain that I need more storage space. 28 - - privacy

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