Lately I’m reminded of how much I’ve grown in the last few years. Having roommates that are four years younger than myself serves as an almost constant reminder of what I’ve gained in my years of college and independence. I’m no stranger to leadership roles, but to be looked at for experience-based wisdom on a consistent basis is an unnerving eye-opener.

Mundane day-to-day necessities like paying bills, shopping, or even cleaning are no longer mysterious and arcane things that only my parents had to deal with. I’ve also moved past the headache and anxiety with having to accomplish these tasks. Well, perhaps there’s still anxiety when money is tight, but that’s a separate issue. The process is no longer daunting, instead all these things have become routine.

The motivation for this train of thought didn’t come from knowing how to talk to a plumber though, its because of a girl.

Jon’s about the same age as I when I first encountered this type of female friend: the clingy girl. A physically, emotionally, and socially needy individual – great for three-legged races, but scary in most other scenarios. In my situation, it was a series of lucky coincidences that turned sour with my first San Diegan girlfriend.

I met “Jane” at a mixer for new Professional Studies and Fine Arts transfer students and we hit it off. Through the conversation I learned she lived in the same residential hall apartments that I did. Later on that night my roommates and I ended up hanging out at her place, with her roommates and some other folks. It was the first party I ever had in San Diego, and the first time I’d ever received and given a haircut while tipping back a few – Don’t try that at home kids. The night ended on a horizontal note and it seemed like all was well.

As time progressed everything became less well. She learned my schedule better than I knew it. That could be seen as a sweet gesture, until she started showing up outside of classes and became agitated if I was ever not “where I should have been.” This was scary Swimfan stuff here, guys. Eventually I learned to hide, with many thanks to her roommates and mine. This steady increase in not meeting her expectations resulted in some explosive retribution from her end, yet she eventually got tired of me falling short and thus grew bored.

Now here in the present, we have Jon. He met a girl through a free online dating site and she came over and watched a movie with him (and I mean that in truth, not as a euphemism). Ever since the credits stopped rolling she’s been calling and text messaging him nonstop. He claimed that he was ignoring her and trying to cut ties, but I could tell what he was still gaming for with this one.

Just like when he wanted to know about dealing with his insurance company, he looked to me for some advice. And having survived the situation myself and seeing he had a chance to take a right turn where I had taken the wrong one, I shared my wisdom:

Clingy, stalker girls are like Gremlins. Don’t feed them, and don’t get them wet. Follow those two rules and you’ll be safe.

When I came home from my own escapades last night and found the two of them on the couch, all I could do was shake my head and mutter, “Gremlins man, Gremlins,” as I walked up stairs. My only hope is she doesn’t get a driver’s license and start showing up here unannounced. Good thing my door has a lock; I wouldn’t enjoy being murdered because she wanted some alone time.

Life at home has been strange the last few weeks. The three musketeers have been one short, and it’s easy to see that two guys are having the run of the house. It’s not that Jon and I are gross-messy, with dirty dishes and smelly clothes laying around (this is mainly a function of having a dishwasher in the kitchen and laundry in the garage). We’re just messy-messy. Shoes and blankets on the floor, towers of DVDs and empty boxes in odd locations.

The dynamic between two instead of three is different. In the small window of time the three of us shared before the accident, we spent our time joking, mocking each other. Dr. Jarboe would explain it as social penetration through fantasy chaining. We even had a literal chain:

Jon: Giggity,

Sarah: Giggity,

Me: Goo.

The last part usually ended in me failing and being smacked in the back of the head.

So, with an excess of time to ponder our mortality, Jon and I have amazingly turned out to be pretty good friends.

Originally, I moved here based almost entirely on how well Sarah and I meshed when meeting, and the fact that she was one of an infinitely tiny minority of potential roommates to use paragraphs, punctuation, and correct grammar in her craiglist advertisement. The people I choose to live with are a more important factor than the house or the location. I wanted to feel at home in this home, and relationships are what establish that feeling.

At that point, Jon wasn’t even in the picture. We had Adam, a soon-to-be graduate student moving from Chicago. He got here, looked around, left. Apparently it was too ghetto. And he wanted his own bathroom. That attitude alone makes me glad he decided to shuffle off instead of stick it out, because I don’t think we would have jived. Plus he was like 5’8” and short guys weird me out. Leprechauns and such.

A week later, in comes Jon to see the place. In some cosmic alignment of fate, it turns out that we’re two peas in a pod, or so my mom said while visiting. We mesh well in what I think is a sort of symbiotic relationship. Both of us would probably remain inert without someone else to share an experience with, or to be the other’s audience. For me, this fills a kind of empty slot that was left as Dwayne and I grew apart because of moving, school, and job schedules.

Now tomorrow, instead of fiddling with layouts or drawing out editing work for the whole day, the two of us are going hiking.

We’re keeping Sarah in the loop too, with texts and pictures from our adventures, and a promise to replay them all with her as soon as she’s back to 100%.