B.F.F. (Or Not)

I went to an all-girls Catholic high school.

An idea most people meet with

a look of horror,

but I loved it.

I mean not initially.

Initially I was convinced

that my parents hated me

and never wanted  me to find a boyfriend.

I got pregnant anyway. Sorry mom!

The dress code was a uniform

with "free dress" days

that allowed for pedal pushers.

Pedal. Pushers.

I mean

the fact that we had to wear penny loafers

was a degree of fashion torture

that can probably be blamed

for my adulthood obsession with heels.

And I still remember

getting a detention

for constantly wearing red nail polish

to my sophomore algebra class.

I'm currently rocking lavender grey nails.  Take that!

But once I settled into

the dude free uniformed existence

I loved it.

Mostly I loved it

because I had a host of girlfriends.

Originally there were 17 of us,

then 12,

and then 8 plus the one

who'd moved away.

A motley crew

of freshman driftwood

that somehow glommed onto to one another

on the concrete

outside of the home ec room

sometime around September '95.

17 years ago. Whoa.

Some of them

had already been friends for years

but not me.

I was the only one

from my group of elementary friends

that had gone on

to that high school.

  

I remember Brianne and Kierra,

older, more experienced sophomores,

telling us that it wouldn't always be this way.

That we would all go on

in different directions someday.

If you can count your closest friends on one hand,

you're lucky.

I shook my head.

No, no, not us,

I thought.

We're bonded forever and ever,

the end.

I don't know

how we all landed together

but we did,

and we stayed that way

through 4 years of high school.

We were

cheerleaders and homecoming queens,

soccer players and ASB leaders,

choir members and drama kids.

Drinkers and pot smokers,

mean girls (to others and each other)

and community volunteers,

journal writers and note passers.

Dichotomies and contradictions,

blondes and brunettes,

little girls growing up together.

We bore witness to each other’s

first loves,

heartbreaks,

car accidents,

and piercings.

It was a mine field but we managed to plant roots.

4 years of roots.

Roots that stayed on

after graduation

and boyfriends

and different colleges.

Roots that lay dormant

as we drifted in and out

of those first post-high school years.

Phone numbers I kept

even after I got caught in a rip tide of

new friends and bad habits.

Phone numbers I called

with the news that I was pregnant at 20

and wanted my oldest friends

at the baby shower.

And they showed up.

They showed up

and I was so glad

to see the faces that had known me

before I was anything else.

They were there when Lucas was born

and they were at most of his birthday parties.

8 years of roots.

Our lives sort of kicked into high gear after that.

Weddings (5 of them!) and babies (3 of those!),

new houses and engagements,

reason after reason

to get together

and just be girlfriends.

Bridal showers and birthdays,

a weekend on the Russian River,

and a boat ride on the Peninsula.

Dinners and Christmas parties,

housewarmings and life, life,

lots of life!

I relished in having longtime friends.

Knew how lucky we were

to have so many years behind

and so many years ahead of us.

12 years of roots.

It'll be 2 years since my initial blackballing from that group.

A summer of weddings that weeded me out.

It started with phone calls

going unanswered and not returned,

birthday dinners I was excluded from without my knowing.

It was a tearful Christmas cocktail party where

I admitted my missteps

and offered my apologies,

sobbing quietly in the kitchen

and left painfully unforgiven.

It was my first lesson in:

"I was wrong" + "I'm sorry"

(does not always)

= everything is better

Losing a friendship is kind of like a death;

disorienting and emotionally charged.

Now multiply that times three

and throw in the sting

of knowing harsh things

have been said about you,

and it's pretty much a shit sandwich.

It has been one of the most brutal experiences.

Ever.

And I know brutal.

14 years of roots.

Every story has two sides,

and I only know my own truth.

The truth is I tried to be there as much as I could.

I tried my best

with 2 young children,

and a failing relationship,

and a full load at school,

and 3 jobs.

Admittedly sometimes my best sucked.

Sometimes I was selfish

and sometimes I was crazy

and sometimes I tried to please too many people

and sometimes I made the wrong choice.

16 years of roots.

According to “The Five Stages of Grief”

I’m in acceptance,

but I’m not sure.

Denial and anger

(and why isn’t sadness a stage?!?!)

still float to the surface now and then.

Mostly because try as I might to

 hidedeleteWTF everyone from Facebook

I still get to see the shit I’m left out of.

And it sucks.

Thanks Mark Zuckerberg!

One of the greatest resources of perspective

in all of this

has been the friends

old and new

that have stayed by my side

through the crazy.

  

The ones I knew

wouldn't punish me

if I came up short

in the game of tit for tat.

The ones who patiently waited out my worst

and taught me how to be a better friend.

And I could say something

about being forever indebted to those girls,

but these friends don’t believe

in debts.