The Glowing Girl, Day 2

When I was in the sixth grade, one dishwasher replacement progressed into a full-blown house renovation. In the throes of the developing plans, our parents made a deal: if we shared it, Georgia and I could have the old master bedroom. We agreed.
The first few months were hard. My type A ways and her whirlwind of chaos consistently clashed; fighting regularly ensued.
“For the love of God, pick up your clothes!” I would yell. “People live here – I live here – not pigs! I cannot deal with it another day.”
 Tape went down on the ground. My half and your half.  It might as well have been invisible. After an ineffective week of border restriction, I pulled the tape, but dissension continued. When PB Teen magazines started coming through the mail slot, I spotted one page displaying a nook I liked, and low-budget redecorations began at a fraction of the Pottery Barn price. Georgia would have no part, but she certainly didn’t mind having friends over to goggle over it, rarely giving me credit.
I don’t remember when breakthrough finally saved us. It was almost as if, under these smaller living constraints, we had to relearn each other in proportionately closer intimacy. If our room was a volcano of fighting, at least the eruptions became less active. They were replaced with lights-out pillow talks and fashion advice. In those first years together, our sisterhood became doubled bonded by friendship. Sharing a room with Georgia was the greatest blessing of my adolescence.

This made moving out one of the poorer decisions I made. Georgia hit puberty kind of late, so the mood swings didn’t really set in until I was in twelfth grade. Couple that with the late-in school arrival senior privilege I gained (and thus later sleeping schedule) second semester, and I was ready to have my own room again. After barely catching a conceding, “Fine,” from Rosa Marie to switch rooms one morning, I proceeded to move all of my stuff back into the original room of my childhood, never announcing to Georgia my intentions, much less my actions. When my sisters came home from school that day, they were both shocked. I think I hurt Georgia’s feelings, too. After a few weeks, I started missing her a lot, and I asked if I could move back in. The upset emotions had not yet worn off, and I was told I had to live with my (poor) decision. Fortunately, much good even came from this bad choice. Once I left for college, Rosa Marie and Georgia continued to share a room, becoming close friends also.

This pretty much defines our roommate relationship


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