Dear Gordon Hall,
It may not have been love at first sight, but after just a few short weeks your white walls and tiny space transformed into the place I call home. I’m sure it has to do with the number of hours we spend together; sleeping, studying, dancing and eating. You’re my favorite place to do it all. I’ll never forget the day I moved in, rearranging the furniture to discover the best way to make everything fit in a livable way. As my roommate and I raised our beds so that our heads almost brushed your ceiling, I knew sleeping here would be an adjustment.
I never imagined that after just two nights I would fall in love with this new way of living. I loved the way my coffeemaker was only a hop, skip and a jump away from my bed. I loved having my personal stylist sleep in a bed right next to mine. I loved the way my roommates and I could stay up late and study with music blasting without anyone telling us to go to bed. I loved the way my desk could serve as a table, a place to study, or my personal make-up counter. Most of all I loved the way you were located about five feet away from Torchy’s Tacos.
Now don’t let me fool you, it wasn’t always a symbiotic relationship; there were definitely some things I had to learn to love. For instance, the way I have to flush-and-run every time I use the bathroom, just to ensure I don’t get sprayed with toilet water. I had to learn to love the mounds of hair that I soon discovered tended to gather when four girls live in a small space. I am still learning to love the fire alarm that always seems to go off when I am sleeping; waking me with a British woman announcing that in fact the building is on fire (it’s always a false alarm). I don’t think I will ever learn to love the task of cleaning you or washing our dishes in your thimble-sized sink.
Despite all of this, when I leave and return I refer to you as my home. I couldn’t dream of spending my first year of college anywhere else. I’m thankful for the friends I’ve made, especially the ones who live down the hall and decorate for each holiday like it’s their primary job. I’m thankful for your open-door policy and some of the strangers who somehow make their way from the door to our couch in a matter of minutes and then refuse to leave. I’m thankful for the laundry room only being a floor away, and for the maintenance man who comes to our rescue when the towel rack falls out of the wall for the third time (no sir, we weren’t pulling on it). I’m thankful for being given the best CA and a lockout desk that greets me with a smile every time I get locked out of my room.
I’m sure when I get a taste of living in an apartment or a house, dorm life won’t seem so luxurious; but for now I’ll continue to love the space you’ve become. This time when I tell my parents I’m coming home, I’ll be leaving their house and heading back to you.
