Jim is worried.

This was the hottest summer on record, during which Daphne and I learned something that is highly useful to know: Our trailer is not very well insulated. We spent all summer hemorrhaging cool air and money. The a/c ran constantly, but we were always on the verge of gym-level sweating. Michael lent us a fan, which we used to its breaking point. Now that the heat has abated (for the most part), we are grateful to come home to what feels positively chilly at this point.

But Gus knows something we all know in the back of our minds, but about which I haven’t thought about much, what with the near-melting: Winter’s coming.

Gus’s solution, which he offered back in April when we were moving, is, “You should be living here.” Gus has a house. A big house. With two cats and lots of stuff left over from three lives. Aside from the fact that the house isn’t entirely child-friendly, and aside from my knowledge that living with a pre-teen is probably more exhausting than Gus realizes or for which he likely has no tolerance, there is one gigantic truth that prevails: I do not need to live among the humans.

I do not do well with roommates. I never have.

When I was a child, if Britt woke me up after I’d finally drifted off for the night, I would freak out. My parents got so angry with me for my yelling and crying.

Back in the days of church camp, I made fast enemies insisting that everybody quiet down when I was ready to call it a night. How they could giggle into the night was beyond me… and not just because I was bitter that they’d somehow all managed to buddy up while I excelled mostly at repelling other girls.

The one semester of college during which I lived in a dorm, my roommate was a girl who’d been my best friend since we were four years old. I loved her. What I didn’t love was that her pre-med major means she spent late nights out in bogs trapping native microorganisms for research, then would come home smelling of stagnant water, throw her clothes on the floor (no time to clean up! Pre-med = study study study), then turn on her study/go-to-sleep sountrack: A Linda Ronstadt CD I heard every single night of my fall 1990 life, except when I went home to visit.

I was about to describe our living conditions, but if you are familiar with The Odd Couple, you can just imagine that.

Right now, I’m going to own up to something: I am not an easy person with whom to live. I have quirks and hang-ups and preferences and do not do well with compromising. I realize that I live with another person, but she’s a child. She’s petulant but ultimately compliant, and we tend to come to some sort of middlish ground because we know we don’t have a choice.

While I appreciate Gus’s worry that Daphne and I will become popsicles, and agree with his assertion that I would save several thousand dollars a year sharing housing with him (he says I need only pitch in on the electricity bill), cohabitating with an unrelated male leads to a whole other set of complications.

For one, to date, Gus genuinely believes that I am flatus-free. I’d hate to destroy his picture-perfect vision of the wonder that is moi.

Additionally, late-night snacks would require a level of dressing to which I am unaccustomed.

Even though Daphne, Gus, and I would know the truth, having a dude for a roommate might look bad to some people and, while I’m not fussed by the scrutiny, I don’t want Daphne to have to answer for my decisions.

So we’re staying put. We love the trailer. We enjoy our park. And we super like having the freedom to keep the hours we want, be as loud as we want, and act like goofy gooberheads whenever we feel like it. In short, we are living the dream, baby. Living the dream!

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