Marge and in Charge

Sometimes I pity my roommate. I mean, not that often. We help each other with chemistry. We make each other fatter with baked goods. We turn off each others' alarms. (OK, I mostly turn off hers, but whatevs.) But there are so many things she endures:

• the thumping of my keyboard.  Sure, the Mozart I was memorizing the other day got a little old after the fiftieth time, but I can only imagine hearing the clunking of the keys without the more melodious sounds that I get out of it.  And with six hours a week, it can't be much fun.
• my laughing/wheezing fits. The first time I had one, I think she was legitimately worried. I would be, too, if I didn't know that my lungs equate "that was funny, you should laugh" with "you're allergic, quick, close all airways!" It happened again tonight while I was reading this. Am I sorry to alarm her (and her friend who was studying in our room)? Yes. Do I regret laughing? Absolutely not.
• my habit of waking up at 6 three days a week. I mean, she claims she falls back asleep really easily, but who are we kidding? No one likes being woken up at 6, even if she goes back to sleep right away.
• my rants. This is why I've tried to spread the love, running down the hall to my friend Abby's room to rant to her instead. Plus, she thinks they're funny (though I do apologize to her roommate, who always answers the door).

But you know, as much as I feel sorry for all she has to put up with, I feel like it could be a lot worse. Instead of laughing, I could have a compulsive need to hum all the time. Or an obsession with trimming my toenails. Or I could be a really dreadful but blissfully unaware baker. In any case, we're sharing a room until May, so wheezing, ranting, and thumping might just be some things she has to get used to. After all, it could be a lot worse.