The Great Midtown Roommate Hunt: The Prologue

I live in a two-bedroom apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, a very nice Midtown neighborhood whose name is the only vestige of its unfriendly past. It could easily be renamed “Actor’s Living Room” or “Gay Man’s Powder Room,” but realtors opt for the innocuous “Midtown West.” I live alone at the moment, me occupying one bedroom and my bike occupying the other, which would be a great arrangement if she’d cough up her half of the rent. She’s not earning her keep, so all-too-soon will I have to embark on The Great Midtown Roommate Hunt.

My bike’s bedroom needs a little work before I can sublet it. Two of the walls were painted Livestrong Yellow by a former roommate, a slight improvement over the Pepto-Bismol Pink from a roommate before her. Last night’s thunderstorm cancelled the Philharmonic and made a bike ride less than desirable, so I bought a gallon of white paint, stripped down to my underwear, and painted. Tonight I’ll have to go back with a brush and finish the edges around the woodwork, but already it’s looking better. Bike isn’t happy because she really liked the Livestrong Yellow, but I doubt many potential roommates will be so passionate about Lance and his bracelet.

Maybe I’m just temporizing by painting. I’ll ’fess up: I dread The Great Midtown Roommate Hunt. The weirdo emails, the interviewing, the bullshitting – it’s a hateful task. Do I want a male or female roommate? Should I limit the age range? Can I share HALF OF MY HOME with this stranger? (Answers: Don’t care, yes definitely, probably not.)

In my infinite wisdom, I overslept this morning and didn’t have time to wash the specks of white paint out of my hair. I am one classy broad. Today’s sacrificial offering goes to the Gods of Perfect Little Dresses. Thank you, O Gods, for granting me this green dress that I can throw on and still look halfway decent for work sans shower.