Nine:

And the Other’s Gold 

There’s something so, I don’t know, comforting about being with people who know you inside and out. Or maybe more than comforting, which implies an action of some kind, it’s comfortable. Comfortable encompasses goes deeper than a surface action. It starts in the face with eyes and lips smiling and spreads inwardly, toward your heart. It’s a state of being, and it’s a rare one at that. Being comfortable with someone means it’s effortless to be you. There are no pretenses, no concerns about positivity and negativity and the dueling roles they play in comments and deeds. You can relax and take something as complex and important as love for granted, because you know it’s just there. 

That’s how it is with old friends, or at least how it should be. With folks who carry memories along with you, so that neither of you feel their weight. There’s a subtle energy in that comfortable feeling. It’s soothing, yes, but it also tickles at your past with the softest of feathers . . . reminding you, for just a little while and so subtly, of where you’ve come from. 

Old friends are the best souvenirs, because they typically don’t take up space in your attic or overcrowded closets but still bring back countless recollections with just a laugh or a hug. So they’ve got that going for them, too: they’re alive, literally and figuratively, accessible any time we slow down enough to call, text, email, have dinner with, or simply remember.

Tonight I was fortunate enough to spend a few hours with a couple of old friends. I “married into” these two beautiful ladies; they were Mike’s friends in college, and for the past twenty or so years, I’ve been able to call them mine, too. They live in the DC area, so I’m two hours too far from running into them in the grocery store or routine get togethers over Thai food, and truthfully, that makes me sad and potentially even a little jealous. I would love to see them on a daily (or weekly) basis, to be a part of the minutia of their lives, gossip about quirky neighbors, vent about kids’ schools, go for a quick walk on a beautiful day. As lucky as I am to have friends like these of my own in Richmond, I’ll occasionally feel such a longing for old friends (be them from high school, college, or since) that it can transform into a bit of melancholia if I don’t keep it in check. Perhaps it’s just the extrovert in me, but I don’t think so. Rather, I believe it’s because connections that last through history strengthen the proverbial “ties that bind” and remind us of what we hold close to our hearts.

For a second tonight, I felt deliriously happy, just sitting between two broads in a hotel restaurant. 

At dinner we laughed. A lot. We jumped from topic to topic without completion and left answers to questions dangling between us, hung up on the energy that kept the conversation moving at an uncatchable pace at first. But then we got into a rhythm, the words flowing as easy as the second glass of wine, and three hours later, I really didn’t want to leave the booth.

However, eventually it was 11:00 p.m., and this Cinderella usually turns into a pumpkin long before that, so we said fun, happy goodbyes, knowing we’ll do it again soon. And we will, because we know that as the kids are getting older, we’re going to need each other in new and different ways. And that’s the thing about old friends: I’m lucky enough to know they’ll be there the next time, in just the same way. THAT I don’t take for granted at all.

Tomorrow I’ll hop on a plane. Well, first I’ll take a xanax, then I’ll say a gazillion prayers, then I’ll hop on a plane. I will head to San Francisco, to see a group of old friends I see a whole lot less than those I saw tonight. Eight of us will spend the weekend together, traveling from East and West Coast cities, and if I had to sum up all the group activities ahead into one word, I suppose it’d have to be laughter. I know we’ll laugh, and just like tonight, I know it’ll be a lot. But I know all the other stuff will come along with it, too, not the least of which is the comfort. Not so tangible, not feel-able, but so awesome to be felt.