Seriously. Somehow (knock on wood) I have entered some wonderful period in my life where I am besieged by girlfriends of the most absolutely amazing sort.
There’s Aaryn, of course, who I always go on and on about (but I surely can’t leave out here), who writes and takes photographs and often thinks the very same thoughts I’m thinking at the very same time. I love her so much it hurts a little bit. This is Aaryn in the freezer at Costco, posing under the cream cheese:
Ohmygod she rocks my world.
There is also Mary:
who I hereafter dub Blonde-ish, at her request. Anyway, I met Mary Blondeish this winter at writing school, in my workshop. Not only is she just pure loveliness to look at, she is a fantastic writer, and an artful correspondent.
As in: she writes letters. And such pretty ones:
I came home from our visit to the States in February and a beautiful handmade valentine was in my postbox. We have been corresponding since, and I had forgotten how much I love to play with paper.
And also? She effing rocks at Scrabble.
I play Scrabble with Blondeish on Facebook, which is about the only thing I manage to do there. Facebook is weird to me because everything you do is someone else’s idea. There’s a great deal of “gift” sending and game-playing that I’ve tried to participate in but don’t really understand, and generally, I’d rather spend my surf time hanging round the blog-o-cooler.
But there are good reasons to be on Facebook. Here’s one of them:
That’s (sigh), Kristin. I have had a crush on Kristin for twenty years now. Every time I see the name Kristin, I think of her. I considered naming Babe-ish Kristin, because I love the name and because it reminded me of my long-lost friend. When I saw Gwenyth Paltrow in A Perfect Murder she looked so much like Kristin at 19 that I left the theater just absolutely aching.
I met her at Mount Holyoke, where I went to college for two years before transferring back to UT Austin. I met her in my second year; she lived down the hall from me in the dorm. She was so cool—I was absolutely dying to be her friend. It felt to me like everyone wanted to be around her, to talk to her. She was a big presence: tall and blonde and usually talking loud about things she hoped you might find shocking or inappropriate. We’d be walking into the dining hall and she’d turn to me and shout something like, “And I told him, get your hand off my boob! And he was such an ass–he had the temerity to suggest I’d invited him to put it there.” And the whole room would get a bit quieter, hoping maybe to hear more. I’d laugh and later go back to my room and look up “temerity.”
It was amazing to me that she wanted to be my friend. I have never been a popular girl, although in my adolescence I wished desperately to be so, and Kristin’s attentions were what I imagined popularity felt like. Only better.
We used to go running together. I never could motivate to get out the door, but she would drag me out—and it was easier to go because I wanted to be with her. Then once we’d get going she’d want to quit after 20 minutes or so, and I would make us run further or harder than we’d planned. It was a good system, and by the end of that semester I was in fantastic shape. Like, such good shape that Kristin and I used to admire our naked asses in the full-length mirrors of the dorm bathroom. And go streaking with some regularity. But that’s another post.
We were in love. Or as in love we could possibly be without some sort of sexual consummation. And it might’ve come to that if Kristin had ever made a pass at me. Or if I hadn’t left.
I left Mount Holyoke in the middle of that year. At the time, I felt like I had reasons to go, but they sound rather silly if I try to articulate them now. As Christmas approached I remember lying on her bed in her room, brushing a strand of her silky blond hair behind her ear with my pinky as she smiled, so close I could kiss her. I thought, “What will I do when I can’t look at her face every day? What will I do when I can’t touch her hair?”
I survived, as you can see. But I have regrets.
Kristin and I found each other again, briefly, while I was in law school, and then lost touch again. After she’d gone I heard from an acquaintance that she had a daughter the same age as mine. I couldn’t find her, but a month or so ago she found me. On Facebook. She lives in Paris, and she’s bringing her girl to London in a month to visit us and I can’t wait. Our eight-year-old daughters have been emailing each other, and it’s so sweet I could just die. Kristin is coming to see me.
And as if that wasn’t enough, there’s Shana, who I found this summer after losing her post high school. That’s an emotional saga that deserves its own post. She came to see me, too (and helped me bake a birthday cake, and sent me an amazing Christmas present). Here’s us playing paper:
And NatDawg, an artist, new mother and soulmate of mine whose family just increased exponentially:
Terese, who finally started blogging (check it out there’s a poem about me), and who I had such an amazing friendship with that they wrote a nationally-syndicated article about women’s friendship that featured us:
That picture? Was like ¾ of a page in the L.A. Times.
And then today, TODAY, I got an email from Martha, my best friend from 5th grade who I maintained contact with for years, but lost sometime in college.
And stupid Deb. And artistic all-around genius Ann. And K-K-K-Katie, of c-c-c-course. And my sister, Sara, who is an absolute rock for me and stands a little apart from all my friends. For the record, she’s my Best Friend, and so I have to mention her here. Also, she’ll get pissed if I don’t.
Do you see what I mean? It’s downright embarrassing. How did I get so lucky?
