The New Roommate Song and Dance

So, I’m meeting my new roommate, Mike, who is cleaner and cooler than I am. I get nervous and start using pleasantries I wouldn’t normally use. “Would you like to partake in this loaf?” Who says, “partake?” Who says, “loaf?” Did I teleport to the pulpit of a baroque church and start holding communion? Perhaps, I could have the maiden of the house knit a crested tunic for Mike. Then, I’ll kill the fattest pig and we’ll feast.

Meeting a new roommate is awkward. We’re stuck together, but nobody comes right out and says it. I know what I'm in for: someone will always be sprawled out on the couch, there’s going to be toothpaste spit on the facet of the bathroom sink, and it’s going to smell like a mass grave at Auschwitz. As I shake Mike's hand and greet him, these thoughts go through my head, but all I can say is, “Nice to meet you. I’m Ross, decedent of Bob, from the shire of Pittsburgh.”

Later on that day, Mike started moving his stuff into the house. He drove from Indianapolis with his mother, a very nice lady. So nice in fact, I almost let my guard down and offered her a shot of Jim Beam. Adults are pro’s at getting me to let my guard down. They act super nice and carefree, so I think it’s okay to start dropping f-bombs and pouring stiff drinks. Next, I’ll be raving about my plans to take a Winnebago to Burning Man. But, yeah, adults are sneaky like that. It’s like becoming cool with your daughter’s boyfriend and waiting for him to slip up, so you can squash him like a bug.

The new roommate dance will continue. We’ll need to recite sports facts while watching ESPN. We’ll need to grill dead animals and eat them, while casually chatting about projectile vomit. And we’ll need to arm wrestle, just to prove we’re strong enough to get each other’s backs. Then and only then, we’ll we be able to relax and communicate by only using grunts.