Please don’t be too jealous . . .

Last night I was able to shake off my shackles and join a girl’s night out, which my husband had teased me of the wild times I would have.  With a married woman, a pregnant and married woman, and a lesbian, I didn’t see us going out to get drunk and harass cute, young, impressionable bartenders.  Well, I might have (harassing cute bartenders), but I was on my best behavior, not wanting to defend myself the next time I went out. 


As we sat at a booth at a bar/grill, as the waiter tried to hurry us along (fat chance), we realized that it was indeed ten years when we met and formed a friendship, sharing a bathroom more like a hallway and a shower that I affectionately called the coffin because I couldn’t lift my arms to wash my hair without bumping my elbows.  My first college roommate, the Violinist, was the pregnant one, and the newly minted lesbian was my adorable suitemate, Rini.  All we missed was Rini’s roommate, who moved her sophomore year to find herself, then graduated from a tiny college called Stanford.  She lives near San Francisco. 


Like all my friends, no matter how long it has been since seeing or talking, we fell back into the habit of what we truly are, talking and laughing loudly, forgetting that we were not the only ones in the restaurant.  These are the women who did not just know where the bodies were hidden, but they had been there to bury them, all except one that we bitterly wished we had truly disposed of.  These are the women who had seen me at my best, a bright student and a talented writer, and at my worst, a conniving, self-centered bitch.  These are the women who would say, “Oh, that’s such a Faemom thing to do (or say)” or “Go ask, Faemom, she knows; she always does.”  (And I assure you that it was said without malice, and I truly believe I know nearly everything.)    I cannot count how many hours we would talk and how many secrets and fun and unusual facts we know about each other.


The Violinist knows that I do not snore, no matter what my husband says.  I know both the Violinist and Rini talk in their sleep.  I can tease them mercilessly about their crushes, but they can hold me responsible for who I actually dated.  The Violinist once yelled outside the door for me to hurry the hell up, but at least she didn’t walk in.  I know who kept her warm one night while we were all camping.  I bought us a kiddie pool for our dorm room, and the Violinist bought a dozen packages of glow-in-the-dark stars.  I had to assure Rini, on more than one occasion, that she didn’t have a bitch bone in her body and to allow me to be the bitch for her.  I gave her all the money I had for the week so that she could drive home that night for a family emergency.  We have enough secrets to black mail each other for life.


Over a warm brownie sundae and a cinnamon-sugar pizza, we congratulated ourselves for getting together as we promised two months ago after laughing our way through Twilight, seeing our younger selves in the characters.  As we parted ways, I threw out a date, after one returned from Thailand and before the other’s baby shower.  We smiled over the thought, and I threatened to surprise the Violinist by Rini and I appearing at her door one day after the baby was born to bring dinner, to clean, and to watch a baby so mommy could shower.


I hope you all have friends like that and that you too will escape the bonds of motherhood for a few hours. . . .

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