As an Addict, More was Always Better.
Before college, I’d selected Powder Puff Football as one of my main interests on campus, along with tennis and softball – which is likely why I got a roommate who was built like a tiny brick. I was always athletic, but never a jock. I took one look at the Powder Puff Football team and ran for the hills.
On the day we both moved in, my first roommate Paula was reticent – and she remained that way all year. She never said a pleasant word to me. Since I was rarely pleasant first, we did not become friends.
In fact, we barely spoke. She would hang out with Mary (a Powder Puffer) who smoked like a chimney. Mary’s room was the only one in the hall that stunk like cigarettes – until Paula came back to our room, which made our room stink like cigarettes.
I detested the smell. I would cough loudly after she returned to the room, letting her know my feelings.
I don’t remember the two of us discussing our issues with one another. Communication was never my strong suit. We didn’t ask, “Is this bothering you?” Neither of us had any interest in cooperation, and I behaved like a spoiled brat. I believed everything I did was done the right way, and everything she did was done the wrong way.
My husband and sons will tell you that I haven’t changed all that much since college.
Other than drinking alcohol, my only true love was music. I was a fanatic for every genre, with the exceptions of jazz and country, and when I liked a new song – which I did often – I became obsessed with that song. As an addict, more was always better.
During my freshman year, I discovered that I could walk to the local store and buy any 45 I wanted. For the uninitiated, a “45” is a record – the precursor to CDs and Spotify. Unlike an “album” (a term still used today), a 45 only held two songs – and usually only one good song. When I was in college, a 45 cost about $.99.
So I would buy my favorite-at-the-moment 45 – for example, You Can Do Magic by America – and I would put it on my stereo, crank it up to top volume, and play it repeatedly for days, sometimes weeks, maybe months. I played it from the second I woke up in the morning until I showered – then I played it again after I showered until I went to class. And when classes were done for the day, I played it for the next seven hours straight. I played it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
When I got a new 45, I changed the song, but I rarely changed my routine.
One day I came back to the room and Paula was playing ABC’s The Look of Love, a 45 I didn’t particularly like. She played it over and over and over for three days. By the end of the first day, I hated the song. And I hated Paula. And I think even Paula didn’t like that song anymore by the time she was done with that 45.
But we never said a single word to each other about it. Eventually I got to the stereo first again, and went right back to my despicable behavior. This made me happy and, as any good addict knows, my happiness is all that mattered.