I used to think people who couldn’t sign 1-year lease agreements had commitment issues. To some small, teensy extent, if someone told me they didn’t want to or couldn’t sign a lease, I might have looked down my nose a tad at said person. Or at the very least made mental notes to file away in the back of my mind in the “Misc., Yet Perhaps Important For Someday And So Should Be Remembered” category that I should not live with such a non-committal person.

This was before I discovered what less than perfect roommates are like in the real world.

When my sophomore year college roommate and I stopped speaking for 3 months, and when no one on the dorm floor dared venture into our room due to the near tangible level of tension, I knew things were bad.

But this was before I caught myself in Trader Joe’s a few weeks ago, cruising down the bottled water aisle and stocking up on 1.5 L bottles of water to keep in my room to tide over my eternal thirst in order to avoid walking into the kitchen to the communal Brita.

And now the refrigerator is broken, so there is nothing left for me here. Not even the once cold french pickles — cornichons are they called? — once kept chilled, crisp and waiting for me in the fridge.

Then there is the other cold, hard truth, not quite as refreshing or crisp, that I am afraid. I’m afraid to move for what I might find behind the doors of city dwellings, suburban condos and in the Victorian homes that await me.

Yes, month-to-month lease it is.