My roommate and I moved into an apartment in Chelsea. I’ve been unpacking for a week now, which has mostly consisted of moving piles around the floor of my room. Venturing from the East Side to the West Side definitely feels different, yet seamless, kind of like switching shampoos or wearing a new pair of sneakers.

But more important than the new ’hood is the new roommate. She’s an old high-school friend of my current roommate. They recently reconnected in New York and, discovering that both of their leases were up June 30, decided that moving in together seemed like a super-fun idea. I readily agreed, recognizing that a party of three would most likely mean more space and a lower rent.

And that’s how I found myself living with Man. Seriously—her name is Man. It’s short for Amanda.

While many girls, including yours truly, couldn’t pull off such a name, Man is so feminine and naturally good-looking that no one thinks twice about the fact that she has the most masculine name of all time. In fact, it makes her cool. If she went by a sweet name like “Mandy,” she just wouldn’t be as cute—it would be too much.

Man is a vegan. She does yoga nearly everyday. Her toiletries are all natural. I think her soap may be composed of caked dirt. She wears lots of vintage clothing: tiny floral dresses and printed shorts with loose-fitting tank tops. She appeared relaxed, nice, and, despite the dirt soap, hygienic. We didn’t exactly hit it off, but we were perfectly amiable to one another, and that was enough for me.

Last Saturday morning, just a few days after the move, I was in the kitchen making some turkey bacon, mouth watering as the meat began to brown in the pan.

“Ugggh! What is that smell?” I turned around and see Man leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom.

“Turkey bacon,” I replied, smiling. “Want some?” In my haze of hunger and excitement, I’d forgotten Man’s dietary preferences. She nearly gagged in response to my offer and mumbled, “I gotta get out of here.” She ran past me and the chorus of sizzling strips, hurriedly explaining that the smell of meat cooking made her feel nauseous and could I please let her know the next time I was going to be preparing “carnivorous foods.”

Though my turkey bacon still tasted delicious, I resented Man’s tone with me, as though I was some bloodthirsty barbarian. Strike one for the new roommate.

A few hours later, Man strolled in after a hot yoga class. My roommate was out at the Container Store. I was watching an episode of Twin Peaks on abc.com and heatedly debating whether I had time to go to the gym before I had to go buy alcohol for our housewarming party that evening.

Man wrinkled her nose, no doubt detecting a faint whiff of the meat I’d prepared hours earlier. She headed to the bathroom to take a shower.

“Whose Dove antiperspirant is this?” she called out.
“Mine,” I replied. “You can use it if you want.” I was striving to be nice and easygoing. Despite the meat mishap, I still wanted all three of us to get along.
“Uh, no thanks,” she called back. “You know, you really shouldn’t use antiperspirant. You should just use deodorant. Your body is meant to sweat.”

Easy for Man to say. She’s one of those people who doesn’t sweat at all. If anything, her pores release a radiant glow. On the day we moved in, my tank top was drenched in perspiration by the early afternoon. Meanwhile, the little flower child was glowing as though she’d been out at the beach all day, kissed by sunbeams. Damn the Man.

And now she was telling me to set out with my sweat out. No thank you. Strike two.

As I heard the shower, I set out to buy the alcohol. On Thurday, when everyone had finished unpacking except for me, we decided Saturday would be a good time to have a little impromptu housewarming party. Since it was so last minute, I didn’t anticipate that many people would show up, but not-really-my-boyfriend-
but-I-think-we’re-dating- though-I’m-not-sure-I’d-say-that-in-front-of-him Jake was finally back in town after being away for the past three weekends: a family vacation, a bromantic getaway with college friends, and a cousin’s wedding.

That, plus the whole apartment hunt, move, etc., had prevented the two of us from spending much time together. So I was happy that I’d have a chance to hang out with him and show him the new place. I don’t think I’d even mentioned that I had a new roommate. I had a giddy feeling we’d be whispering sweet pun-things into one another’s ears re: the new Man of the house.

And with that thought in the forefront of my mind, I was in good spirits as the evening began. I received a text from Jake at 11:00, saying he was here but couldn’t remember the apartment number. I texted back and immediately heard him buzz the apartment. However, Man was standing by the intercom and buzzed him in before I could get to it. She walked over to open the door. I followed. I’ll admit, I felt that twinge of deep-stomach excitement as Jake appeared in the door.

But Man was in my way.

“Jake?” she exclaimed, both surprised and agitated. “What are you doing here?” In that single moment, both my jaw and my mood sunk like a stone in a Man-made pond.

They knew each other. I stood there, suspended by disbelief, frozen by the discomfort of their interaction. How did they know each other? Had Jake been Manhandled? Oh, God. This curveball looked like strike three.

To be continued…

Photo Credit: images.craveonline.com