By K.C. Skeldon '17
In the style of The Toast’s (RIP) “If X Were Your Y”
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, she wouldn’t mind that your alarm always wakes her up before you can turn it off, even though she doesn’t have class until 11:10. “You’re just a heavy sleeper,” she’d say. “Don’t worry about it.”
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, she’d tell you not to worry about skipping class on a Friday afternoon because you’d been up the night before finishing a paper. She’d reassure you that you owe yourself some time, since you always spend so much of it occupied with helping others.
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, you’d find period care packages on you bed before the first cramps hit.
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, she’d bring you back half a dozen cannolis and a pumpkin spice latte in return for giving her a single bus token.
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, she’d text you from Clapp offering to print your readings “because you had such a busy day,” even though you only had two classes but she had a lab and two midterms to study for.
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, she’d audit your badminton class, despite finishing her P.E. requirement her first year. “I like to stay active,” she’d say, but you’d know it was because she understands how anxious you get asking someone to be your partner.
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, you’d discover your El Table tab mysteriously paid off at the end of every semester.
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, she’d offer to pay for half of your load of laundry, even though she’d only ask you to wash a single pair of socks.
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, your mom would text you thanking you for her birthday card. You’d be confused and freaked out. You’d been so preoccupied with internship applications that you’d forgotten about her birthday. You’d see the Paper Source receipt in Paula’s wastebasket the next day.
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, you’d be embarrassed about how unprofessional your clothes looked next to hers in your shared closet. The next weekend, Paula would suggest that the two of you go to Macy’s. You’d come back with your first blazer, and Paula would watch proudly as you’d hang it in the center of the rack, on the edge of your allotted space but almost kissing her favorite blue jacket.
If Paula Johnson were your roommate, you would feel an incredible amount of imposter syndrome. It would start wearing you down, but just before it would take up permanent residence in your soul, Paula would swoop in, take you on a walk around the lake, and tell you all of the reasons she was proud to call you her best friend.
From November 2016 issue