Burping, Farting and Virginia Woolf

Okay, burping and farting. I’m not gonna lie, it happens a lot in my house. I’m not a prude about it; I really don’t have that luxury because I live with three guys. So, it happens, and I can tolerate it to a point, but when it becomes so commonplace that the occurrence warrants no vestige of common proprietary remorse, but instead a disproportionate display of pride, that’s when I wish I had my own apartment. Yes Virginia Woolf, a room of my own; except in my case it would be a quaint one-bedroom apartment with vintage appeal and all new appliances.

And in this apartment there would be order. There would not be sweaty socks and sports clothes on the living room floor or wedged between the sofa cushions. The only shoes I would trip on would be my kicky pumps, which were a steal at DSW. I wouldn’t find dirty dishes in odd places like under the bed or behind the radiator. I could watch whatever I want on TV whenever I want. Everyone who lives there would love whatever I made for dinner. I could have flowered sheets on the bed, and lots of funky yet homey pillows that don’t get tossed to the floor and swept under the bed into a morass of dust woodland creatures. The bathroom would not have tufts of shaving cream lingering dangerously close to my toothbrush. The house would smell like the ocean and not a heady mix of ass, Axe body spray, and Chef Boyardee Mini ravioli. It would be an oasis of comfort, quirkiness, girliness and serenity.

I know you think I wish I was single. I don’t. I love my smelly, gassy, messy guys. I just don’t want to live with them all the time. I just want a little Mary Tyler Moore Haven(we’re talking her first cozy personality-driven apartment, not the clinical neutrality of the second) that I can retreat to and pretend life is uncomplicated, neater and smells better.

Yes Virginia Woolf, I need a room of my own, but not for the lofty reasons you originally implied. And, in fact my impressive literary reference is based purely on a cursory understanding acquired through conversations I had no right to be a part of since I’ve never actually read your book.  My need for fulfillment is not to enrich my soul and strengthen my independent voice, it is in fact to selfishly reacquaint myself with peace and quiet and leave all references to Middle Earth, the latest Vine Video and an encyclopedic knowledge of all things football behind in a noxious cloud of burps farts and the general male musk of territorial entitlement.

I do not need this. I do, however, want it. Badly. The allure of being in charge of my own schedule, life, and general environmental aroma in the midst of the beloved and wretched chaos that is a family. Until such a time exists I will find a room of my own wherever I can; in doing a crossword puzzle on the porch before everyone's up, in a glass of wine accented by cheese and bread whilst they feast on fried chicken, french fries, and Orange Crush, in a late night viewing of Sense & Sensibility on the rare occasion when they are all out of the house at the same time. And then I will metaphorically return home refreshed, balanced, and ready for anything for at least a moment until the silence is pierced by the next burp or fart, or that unique symphonic confluence of both happening at the same time.