Like most women, I have lots of girls I can hang with and laugh with and do generally whatever with. But there are two, in particular, who've been there with me through the thickest and thinnest, for more than twenty-five years. I was a freshman in high school when I met each of them, and we have done it all together. (Well, okay, not that, but honestly most women don't do that with their besties. That's another blog post, though.)
These two, Tiff and Mog, have been there to help me breathe, both when I couldn't stop laughing and when I couldn't stop crying. They've rolled my drunken, stumbling ass home more times than I can count. They've answered my unexpected calls in the middle of the night, and they've soothed my swollen, puffy eyes the next morning. Our shared laughter has borne so many inside jokes that it's all a big, cheek-aching blur. (Unicorns! <thumpboomroll>)
Being scattered around the country, I'm thankful every day for the ubiquitous technology that keeps us in each other's loops. I've lost track of each of them at different times; sometimes life just gets in the way. But, just like we said when we were sixteen, we'd find each other again and it would be like no time had passed at all. We're all connected by this web of history and experience and love that binds us together, no matter how much time or distance is between us.
I was, in fact, talking to Mog this morning. There's an episode of Sex in the City (#206, "The Cheating Curve" to be exact) where Carrie's diaphragm gets stuck. Miranda and Charlotte each decline to help, but Samantha agrees and goes on a recovery mission. Tiff and Mog would totally retrieve my diaphragm if the situation warranted, and I'd do the same for them. (No innuendo. Again, that's not what besties do. We'll talk again in the other blog post.)
For the record, Tiff is a Charlotte, with a little Miranda thrown in for good measure. Mog is a Samantha-Miranda mix. Me, I'm a Carrie, with a late-night-poison-control-call dose of Samantha. Our personalities aren't so defined as to be this one, stereotypical character. Like most women, we are complex, and we thrive on it.
Women can be freakishly competitive about the strangest things, and girls are mean. We tend to show only our best sides to the other women in our lives, horribly afraid of the snarky backbiting and weird judgments we know women make about each other. (We all do it. Really.) These are the women I don't have to be that way with, and vice versa; they don't care if I haven't washed my hair in three days or worn make-up in a month, looking oh-so-snazzy in my holey sweats and flip-flops. When I do look great, they're the first to tell me. But they'll also tell me those jeans make my butt look big.
More importantly, they'll tell me when I'm being a dumbass. They have absolutely no qualms about letting me know when I've gone off the next deep end. They also have no qualms about being the ones to rescue me when I need it. Believe me, they have—time and time again.
I have one guy in my life like that, and I hope I never, ever lose him and his Hammer of Honesty <wallop, wallop!>. There have been a couple who filled that roll through the years, but they almost always ended up becoming lovers, which ultimately blew the relationship in its own way. I do think it's much, much harder for men and women to cultivate the extremely close platonic relationship, not so much because of sex but because of undeniable differences in gender. (I could blog about it, but just go watch When Harry Met Sally and let's be done.)
I hope you, the one reading this, have someone in your life like Tiff and Mog. I hope you have someone who can be brutally honest with you—not despite their love for you but because of their love for you. I hope you can be that same person in return.
It's good for everyone to have someone there when you get something stuck where you just can't reach it.