Rebecca came for a visit last week, and just in time. I sent an email several weeks ago to a handful of girlfriends saying I was struggling and the normal pick-me-ups (exercise, limited alcohol, prayer, time outside) weren’t doing the trick. My physician, rushed and unwilling to really talk, suggested I see a therapist.
Rebecca told me to hold my horses. She’d be there soon.
She wasn’t off the plane 2 hours and we were laughing so hard, we were crying. Literally. The scene played a bit like this: warm summer day, patio at a new restaurant, young, very attractive waiter named “Dewey.” Rebecca orders the “Ron Burgundy” wine flight, which prompts my immediate response of, “San Diago, the German word for whale’s vagina.”
Crickets could be heard two blocks away.
Dewey squirmed, rightfully uncomfortable at hearing the word “vagina” during an otherwise peaceful ad polite lunch shift. Rebecca stared at her lap, debating whether to kick me or just take a cab immediately back to the airport.
Once he scattered off, getting through the rest of our order, Rebecca through a bout of hysterical laughter and tears said, “Is this how it works for you?”
Yeah. This is exactly how it works for me. To know me is to know I’m ridiculous. I buy doggles for my dog. I recite ridiculous movie lines. I can’t budget or lose weight to save my life, but I love to beat myself up publicly for it, setting loud, obnoxious goals I regularly miss.
I’ve long since passed the point in my life when I care if others think I’m odd. I AM ODD. I get it, accept it, and baby — I’m reveling in it.
Also during this trip, we spent time with Rebecca’s niece and nephew, who are in elementary school. At one point in the afternoon, I convinced them my middle name was Beyonce, telling them it was the name I preferred to be called. Again, hysterics ensued. Imagine us walking into a pizzeria with two small children calling after me, “Beyonce! Can we have lunch now?” Forks dropped.
I’ve since taken to referring to myself (signing off on email) to this family as Beyonce. I’m not sure anything has made me laugh harder.
As a girl scout, we sang the silver and gold friendship song. Truer words have never been sung (off tune, at a camp funded on the backs of cookie salesgirls.) Rebecca is one of those who has seen my ugliest, but is still willing to leave behind her young family for a weekend to shake me out of it. And she did. With long walks, cooking, movies and hours of celebrity gossip.
Our friendship is like a stack of waffles covered in peanut butter — I’m home.
I said to her 30 times during her visit how much better I felt since her arrival. This heavy tension between my shoulders fell away; I slept better (and more) than I have in weeks. And of course, the laughter didn’t hurt either.
Golden, this friendship.
(P.S. Dewey didn’t ask for my number. I know. You are shocked.)