“Do I need rental insurance,” her 20-something skin irritatingly-glowing as she counts her daily steps, pacing back and forth in our apartment. She is training for a marathon.
“Yes, you should definitely get it,” I say to my daughter, my beautiful roommate. We have been sharing space since her college graduation, my pandemic-divorce and her deep dive into a first job. Go gently into the real world, I think to myself.
What a strange ride it has been. Sometimes, while simultaneously preparing for an evening out, she magically appears in my bedroom, “Can I borrow that black shirt and that gold heart necklace?” she asks as I examine my upper-lip.
I scream inside, just a tiny bit. She is years away from understanding our generational disparity and what is needed to prepare for a night out. I smile anyway. Who would have thought we would be roommates, just us, the last couple of years?
She drops Amazon boxes, chaotically, on the couch as she walks in. “I hope my oil pulling mouthwash and snail-mucin cream arrived.”
“Your what?” I ask, exasperated. It doesn’t take long to separate our respective deliveries.
I may toast with champagne, just a little, the next time I’m getting ready - my jewelry intact with beautiful silence, devoid of the sound of her daily steps in the living room or separating our deliveries. Undoubtedly though I will feel her absence.
I love my roommate. I even love the wonderful, challenging and unexpected moments as we both forge forward in this crazy world.
Still, I may be just a little relieved when the packages are simply, beautifully and solely filled with my Melatonin, under-eye cover cream, a new tweezer and my Over-50 multivitamins.
You are my favorite roommate. I will miss the sound of your daily steps.
When are you coming for dinner next week?
