A few years ago, determined to live in my favorite, hip LA neighborhood, I decided to brave the roommate scenario once again. It was either that or move to Glendale and live next door to my ex boyfriend. The Craigslist apartment listings aren’t unlike the online dating personals. Mostly a lot of nut jobs in need of companionship and a laundry list of demands of the stranger in question. My favorites are the ones requesting the roomie-to-be never be home, have no guests, and pay the majority of the rent.
When I finally stumbled across one that sounded like it had been written by a human being, I called immediately and made a plan to go see the place and meet the potential roommate. Benjamin was a 30 year-old Asian graphic designer genius or something. He had a room available in his Silverlake apartment. We went for a pre-roomie coffee date. He told me all about his Capoeira dancing, a combination of marshall arts and Afro-Brazilian dance. Back at his place he showed me some moves and nearly took my head off with an upside down roundabout kick. He was small but muscular and though the dancing was impressive, standing in his living room watching him thrust himself about to no music was somewhat awkward. I told him I needed to think about it. “Here, take the keys,” he said. “I’ll be out of town for the weekend and you can come hang out, see if it fits.”
It’s a bizarre feeling to enter a stranger’s house alone for the sole purpose of hanging. I was used to house-sitting, baby-sitting, cat-sitting. All of my jobs, including substitute teaching, involved playing sub for somebody else in their life while they were off living. I’m incredibly responsible. And incredibly lethargic in making things happen for myself. I walked through each room, watched the stripes of light from headlights through the mini blinds travel across the walls. I opened the medicine cabinet and found that, like all guys, Benjamin had a collection of about seven deodorant sticks. I lay on the floor in the room I might inhabit and stared up at the ceiling. Nope. Didn’t feel right. My real fear of having a roommate (though I’ve had some nightmarish ones in the past) is that close quarters will lead to them seeing the real me: moody, lonely, and prone to anxiety attacks. It’s the same reason I often avoid dating.
I sat down on Benjamin’s couch to write him a note thanking him for the offer, but alas, declining. As I was writing, though, the couch suddenly felt so cozy. I picked up a pillow and sniffed: Old Spice. I’m a sucker for smell. I dated a guy once because he smelled like 1994. I dated my first boyfriend because he smelled like fabric softener and pizza. This pillow smelled just right. My note changed tone. Panic-prone mess that I am, I can summon charm when need be. I wrote a witty little note about how I wasn’t catching the roommate vibe, but that the smell of his sofa made me think we should hang out some time. He called the second he got home.
I should add that I was in a pretty good depression during this time. I hated my jobs, needed a place to live, and had just learned my ex was in love with a gorgeous, talented, hilarious woman who I would have to see on a daily basis if I moved in next door. Benjamin and I started making out on his good-smelling couch a few times a week. We bonded over both liking the Arnold Lobel children’s book, “Frog and Toad.” Frog was an easy going guy while Toad was an anxious, pessimistic worrier. We nicknamed ourselves Frog and Toad. Yes, of course I was Toad. And yes, I had joined the trend that is online dating. I might not have found him in the personals, but this was a Craigslist connection with a couch as a matchmaker.
The danger in dating someone because of A)depression and B)good smell, is it soon becomes apparent the relationship has little to do with the other person. Benjamin would answer the door wearing flip flops with socks, the rubber thong wedged up between his toes. It made me want to barf. He kissed like a seagull, craning his neck back then attacking with pursed lips that felt like they were bruising me. Also, he was a terrible driver. I know it’s shallow, but when a guy can’t get from one destination to the next without several near-collisions, I find it unattractive.
It was during a make-out session when Benjamin confessed he had always suspected he might be gay until he met me that I decided it was time to call it quits. Flattered though I was that my dry humping skills were so affecting, this just wasn’t working. I pulled an old reliable breakup line, “I’m just so messed up right now, I don’t think I can handle being with someone.” (Side note: I recently received this one myself. Can you say, ‘karma?’) Benjamin offered to wait until I felt less messed up. This went on over a series of phone calls. I didn’t have the guts to admit to him I just didn’t feel it, and he was obsessed with helping me through my mess. At one point he lamented, “I’ve never dated a neurotic woman before!” Not a line that gets the girl, for the record.
He finally got the hint and I moved in next door to my ex. Seeing his perfect new girlfriend come around was actually worth not sharing a bathroom. I try to remember now, in times of boredom or depression, that any guy can slap on the Old Spice and smell like home. It doesn’t mean you have to move in.
Photo via Evan Pickett
