I’m not known for my stick-with-it-iveness. I crave the temptation of adventure. I collect hobbies and possible future careers (just saw a breakdancing troupe perform in the subway this morning, BOOM, wanna be a hip hop dancer. It’s a problem). As Jonathan Safran Foer said so eloquently, I feel my bones strain under the weight of all the lives I’m not leading.
But I’m really REALLY good at committing whole-heartedly to one thing. I’m unabashedly good at maintaining relationships.
I don’t do ‘acquaintances.’ Perhaps because- like the quintessential confessionary American- I tend to tell near-strangers my life secrets two minutes after meeting (Europeans everywhere are shaking their collective head at my lack of mystere). Perhaps because I lack a verbal filter and spew out random thoughts like a bad DJ’s worst set. Whatever the reason, I’m an acquired taste. Like durians or black licorice.
But none of this matters because I’m really good at having and keeping True Friends. I tend to take a George Costanza, get-my-jingle-stuck-in-your-head-til-you-realize-you-miss-it-when-it’s-gone approach, and then friends realize that they’re stuck with me because like a swan or prairie vole, I mate for life.
Which finally leads me to how I came to spend yesterday with four of the finest ladies I’ve had the pleasure of knowing for the past twenty years.
Day #11,069: We were gathered around a pool in the warm California sun, bedecked in our best heels & suits, with necks craned, awaiting that one pivotal moment.
I held Mr. M’s hand surrounded by three women whom I’ve considered to be my dearest friends for just about twenty years- some of the few people who’ve been in my life longer than Mr. M himself. Having met in sixth grade, we were inseparable friends throughout middle school… high school… after being scattered across the country for college… through losing parents and gaining husbands… through graduate school and first jobs, and second jobs, and most recently, when the first in our group became pregnant with our (yes, OUR- it’s not mine, but we’re that close) first baby.
As we stared into the sun, the fifth in our group emerged in flowing white, arms linked with her soon-to-be-husband, headed regally to pledge her vows.
Like most cliché women, I so enjoy weddings. I’m a sucker for love and commitment and family and honestly, just celebrations in general. I’m under the general impression that open bar + FloRida = a very good time. (And for those who may be wondering, I spared my dear friend these killer dance moves. Beware upcoming May wedding, I’m coming for you…)
Killer dance moves aside, I think I love weddings because they bridge the gap between the jump into something new and the continuity of… everything. Love, commitment, family, bonds. All the important stuff.
Sometimes I wish I had more ‘staying power.’ That I could fall desperately and passionately in love with work instead of entertaining thoughts of becoming a subway street performer. That I didn’t feel that constant drive to throw myself headfirst into adventure after adventure.
But then I remember that I stick with it where it matters, and the rest is all icing on the proverbial wedding cake.
And that’s why, as I held Mr. M’s hand almost fifteen years after holding it the very first time, surrounded by my support system of the past twenty years and peering up at the white vision heading toward the aisle- whom I remember in braces not so long ago- I teared up.
And then immediately worried for the continuity of my mascara. After all, I’m still just a woman at a wedding.
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