Well.

Now that we’re 34 and 32 respectively, I suppose Justin and I are officially “in our thirties,” which is weird because nothing has really changed since our twenties except that our hair is falling out (yes, mine too — if you know how to make this stop, please fill me in) and now we have a roommate. Actually for a short time we have two roommates if you count the 19-year-old. But I’m not sure if you should because I’m only aware of her presence for like an hour in the evenings when she emerges from her cave for a refueling of protein and Mountain Dew.

(Until this moment, I never thought about how wholly misleading that brand name is. To normal people, the phrase “mountain dew” should conjure images of fresh alpine mornings, crystal clear air, and pure droplets of water dripping from pine needles. Instead, to us over-commercialized masses, it conjures images of neon yellow snot water that probably shouldn’t even be allowed in our homes, let alone our bodies, but ya know it tastes good.)

(Okay I don’t even really think it tastes good but I don’t want the teenager to think I’m not cool. Which really solidifies the fact that I’m in my thirties.)

Anyway.

We have a roommate who happens to be a dear friend of mine from when we lived back in Georgia. Her husband’s in the Air Force as well, but she and I actually met in college where we immediately bonded over the fact that we were “non-traditional” “older” students with a shared interest in geomorphology and geographic information systems. We had a weird affinity for fluvial processes and karst topography and the monotony that is collecting soil samples for analysis. Plus she knew how to make a killer buttery nipple and we could bitch about the military.

It was beautiful.

Then we were separated for seven years while her family moved off to Virginia then Germany then back to Virginia, during which time Justin and I pretty much camped out in North Carolina. We were reunited upon our move to Virginia, but now, of course, her husband has orders to D.C. Such is the life. Now Angie is staying with us for a couple of months to wrap up her job before joining her husband in their new condo a few hours up the east coast.

At first I was all nervous. I mean, aside from Justin, I haven’t had a roommate since 2002. What if she got grossed out by the amount of dog hair I let pile up before deciding it’s worth it to pick up a broom? What if she notices that my trash can smells and that some of the condiments in my refrigerator expired in 2009? What if she judges me for watching re-runs of Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix instead of working on my novel or learning to play guitar or sweeping up dog hair?

These are the things that go through my mind.

It turns out I worried for nothing, though. While I was at my phone food photography class on Sunday, she sent me a text notifying me that the sheets from my couch (to protect them from mutt nails) were in the wash and my house had been dusted and my carpets were vacuumed and there was a foot massage waiting for me when I got home.

Okay she didn’t text that last part.

But that’s when I realized that a) I totally would’ve accepted that foot massage if she’d offered, and b) she was probably just as nervous about the whole roommate situation as I was, which is silly because when people are kind and considerate and care about each other’s comfort, coexisting in a shared space really isn’t all that difficult.

And when there’s wine and shared housework and lots of delicious food involved, it’s even kind of fun.

Justin & Angie, Thanksgiving 2006