When my roommate and I met–not counting the Facebook stalking that had occurred prior to our arrival on campus–we were both flanked by our parents, who appeared to be at least twice as excited as we were. We had a very formal introduction, and were relatively silent as we unpacked. Our first two days were characterized by lots of “so when do you usually…” and “oh okay, yeah…” A lot of nodding, and living logistics. A lot of wandering to the same places in an attempt to look social. Our room was pristine, our conversations were about orientation, and our bed times were early.
I don’t know if the change was drastic after upperclassmen arrived and classes started, and I don’t know if they were its only cause, but the other night, we broke into our chocolate stash as we tried (and failed) to efficiently finish the work we’d put off for our classes. We chatted about going out two nights before, and about finally meeting people who didn’t live within 40 feet of us. Our shoes were all over the place, our communal fruit bowl was looking a little sad and empty, our laundry baskets seemed pretty plump, and I don’t know about her, but I felt like we had actually started living here.