The Importance of Roomies

Recently, I attended the wedding of my sophomore year roommate. It was the first wedding among my friends, but I'm sure not the last. It was strange and wonderful to see her setting off on her life, although I felt a little usurped as I was no longer the roomie of choice.

I used to kid in college that I had the two best red-haired, Northern Californian roommates a girl could ever want. I visited one in San Francisco before I went off to see the other marry.

When I came back from my week-long sojourn in northern California, my latest roomie was waiting up for me. I landed in typical Boston summer weather: hot, humid, and in the midst of a sudden thunderstorm. Her concern reminded me of the first all-nighter I pulled on my sophomore year roommate, who was disconcerted to awaken to my empty and made bed (especially rare for get-up-at-noon-only-if-I-have-to me). It reminded me of the night I waited up for my first-year roommate who was late returning from an evening with a boy. And how later that year, she and I shared our very first college all-nighter, and danced on our beds as the morning sun streamed in the window.

Each roommate left something with me: Ames, the importance of making your bed . . . and eating peanut butter cups while studying. Realizing that what you thought something meant is as important as what it actually meantÑforever leaving me with the slightly mistranslated Latin phrase, "If you were not lighter than a wicked cork and more ill-tempered than the Adriatic Sea, I would live and die with you."

Jessica, who was the first roommate to actually get me up before noon voluntarily, showed me the beauty of the morning and the outdoors. She taught me the importance of letting people be who they are, and not who you want them to be.

And my current and inimitable roommate Jen has shown me many things and continues to teach me everyday how to be a little bit less who I am and more who I should be. She's also taught me the importance of fresh tomatoes, how to laugh at one's self and one's dog, to love unequivocally, and to never, never trust a golden raisin.

Only a mediocre writer is always at his best.
-- Maugham

Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.
-- Moliere