What a second-year double looks like to a first-year

Bwog has been watching a lot of early-2000s reality TV shows lately, our most recent favorite being Wife Swap. However, after sending in our audition tape to ABC, we learned that Wife Swap is no longer on the air. Thus, in proper Bwog fashion, we made two Barnard Bwog staffers swap wives rooms. Here are the results.

Back to the Quad.

Ah, home. I missed the Barnard Quad! I missed living in a quad-style room in Brooks Hall. I missed the three roommates, the unruly hairs in the corners of the room, the overflowing recycling bins, the battle for fridge space. Looks “vintage,” smells vintage. The wood door frames and rustic scratched mirrors, the chipped almost-eggshell white paint, the giant pipe running through the baby-sized shared closet. The sleeping space no more than eight feet wide, shared between two. The constant dilemmas: Can I turn on the lights yet? Can I get away with using the one floor-length mirror for myself this morning? Can I tell those assholes sitting in the hallway to shut the hell up since it’s 1am, that I can hear every word of the Skype conversation?

Wandering through the dorm — which might better be described in terms of living space as “quarters” — I am struck by all that I’d forgotten, all that I’d managed to permanently block out of my mind after leaving it last spring. I lived in this exact room set-up, one floor higher. Despite this small difference, I find myself sighing to one of the first-year roommates, “Some things never change.” And then I drape myself into a hard black plastic chair and almost tip it over (as I’ve been prone to do on these damned things), sighing again, more deeply. Dust particles in, dust particles out.

I’d not set out to interview the three roommates of the Barnard girl with whom I’d swapped rooms, but the excitement of having four people congregated for once is unbearable. The chatter comes, and I can’t help but partake in the dialogue, too. “Can I borrow your curling iron?” “Oreos on top of the fridge are for anyone who wants them!” “So excited for Mega Shabbat.” “Can I open the window? It’s hot as hell in here.” “Are you still dating Ben?” “Can I please use the mirror now?”

I soon hyperventilate from the cramped conversation. I run for the hills, also known as one of the ungodly high loft beds. Always ensure a running start, or you will not make it up. Separately, always ensure that you knock before entering your side of the quad, or you will perchance find a boy on your roommate’s bed. But the door was open, thank the lord, and I think I’m out. But then: the conversation builds like the heightened whispers in the Chamber of Secrets and I feel the familiar buzz at my ears once again so I try to cover them I try to wear my Beats by Dr. Dre but I can’t drain it out and I’m hearing about Hillel and torn tights and glitter eyeliner and I’m being sucked back in help me help me help me hellllllppppppzzzzzzxxxxxxzzzzz//

The Sophomore Upgrade.

I’ve ventured far from the home base in my temporarily new class status: eight blocks from the Barnard gates is now where I will rest my head tonight, and this safe distance away from curling irons and questionably-taken Bens is worth the hike uptown. Past the lobby of a familiar Barnard ID-flash movement, the elevators and particularly crafted stairs of 110 reveal a true New York City spirit that the industrialized quad buildings lack. What I once found “charming” about Brooks Hall is now being replaced by less roomy elevators, stairs with wear as the centers have sunk inward with age, and room numbers that blend in with those of real NYC apartments. How much scheming do I have to do in the lottery to ensure a bed in this facade of a college dorm?

The elevators open at the seventh floor, and there is not a set of friendly signs to ensure me that turning left or right will take me to my destination (my eyes search radically for “Brooks –> Sulzberger <–“). Overwhelmed by the realness of this hallway, I use the rationale of being right-handed to go right and hope to stumble upon the correct letter of the alphabet. It takes passing a few doors to discern the quasi-alphabetical order that these doors follow, but my right-handed instincts brought me successfully to my new home. How did I not pass a girl along the way in a towel with shower caddy in hand, her wet Old Navy shower shoes dragging water from her latest hygienic experience?

The comfort and layout of doubles is not unknown to me (girls who live in quads seek out friends in doubles for sanity), but 110 offers amenities that makes a prominent distinction between a Sulz double and this…playroom of a dorm. The blue speckles of carpet flooring from wall to wall cause me to rip off my boots and socks and allow my feet to sink into a comfort I’ve previously only associated with going home; I open a door expecting a closet and alas find a bathroom with all one could ever need in the privacy of your own room; the 80s-inspired, white dressers and desks remind me of furniture I once wanted in a dollhouse. In the midst of my reveling at these new residential wonders, I hear the main door open – who dare interrupt me during my first slot of alone time since my shower yesterday?

One female body enters the room – my new roommate, not roommates. I soon disregard my instant selfish thought and welcome the presence of just one body over three. Our beds are a considerable distance apart; I can finally set an alarm at full volume without worrying about stirring another roommate during her precious sleep. We don’t converse much, and for once I don’t know about a roommate’s most recent sexual escapade in Carman, how her fake almost got taken at Mel’s, or just how great her new sister in DG is for having lunch with her in Hewitt.

I leave without saying a word or having us bump into each other, and, with feet on the sidewalk on 110th Street, an arctic blast puts me off my axis a bit. It’s gonna be a long, cold walk to Diana.

Our dream dollhouse via Shutterstock