I recently discovered this seriously funny blog, and am now flattered to have a guest post on it. Check it out. You’ll thank me, I promise. (And maybe work through some of your issues while you’re there.)
It’s a Steel Magnolias/Ya Ya Sisterhood/Fried Green Tomatoes kind of thing.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my friends. I’ve wanted to write about my friends for some time, but feared the idea would result in the kind of mushy and saccharin post that the very friends I mush-ed and saccharinn-ed over would detest. So I decided against it. But the idea kept popping up. No no, I told myself. Leave the ya-ya posts to the ya-ya bloggers–there’s plenty of ’em out there. Then, last weekend, I saw a very dear old friend who I hadn’t seen in a long time, and I started thinking about my friends all over again. And I got flustered and happy, all over again. And I decided, “To heck with my friends, I’m gonna write that darn post about them.” (My friends and I don’t swear, you see.) (At least not in front of each other.)
I have great taste in friends. Not to brag, but I do. I don’t have one good friend who I do not deeply admire or of whom, more often than not, I am crazy jealous. I have friends who are gifted in music and mathematics. I have friends who are gifted in sewing and cooking, decorating and design. I have friends who are athletic, stylish, organized, creative, interesting, interested. I have friends who manage young children with patience and flair, keeping their dignity intact (I never managed that one) and friends who scale mountains at school or at work to make sure their children have every opportunity one mother can breathe into them.
Many of my friends are very smart, most of them are funny, but all of them are fun. The other night, I knew I was with a good friend when we we started laughing so hard that she actually rolled off of the couch onto the floor, where she lay face down and stayed for quite awhile, shaking and wetting my carpet with her tears. After she made it back up to the couch, we kept laughing, neither of us feeling a need to comment on the ridiculous scenario that had just taken place between us two dorky moms. No Comment Necessary; that’s the mark of a good friend.
Which segues into what is, in my opinion, the best thing about having good friends: the talk. Forget “Walking the Walk”, I’m all about Talking the Talk. I love to talk, I love to listen to you talk, I love to talk with you about religion or politics or plastic surgery or paninis or pantyhose or the pariah in the PTA. I love, love, love the Talk. My poor husband. He’s lucky I have such good friends.
Some of my friends have struggles, and I watch them as they deftly maneuver trials that would send me to bed with the covers pulled over my head. These friends are Real Grownups: smart and strong. I watch them as they help themselves, and their families, then turn and help each other. I observe them with open admiration, but secretly hope that that I’ll never have to develop such strength of my own, strength that they’ve earned the hard way. Yet I know, one day, I will. And when I do, I also know who will be waiting at the bottom of that freefall, with arms and brownie pans wide open.
Other friends of mine aren’t struggling with big things, but are enduring the supposedly little things that at some point encumber us all: stress, insecurity, guilt, regret. Sometimes all of these little things back up into a Big Thing, and when that Big Thing hits, the only way through it is by talking with a good friend. At least, that’s how it works for me. And it does work. Every time.
Am I too old to take such delight in my friends?
However life is treating them at present, I have noticed that my Great Taste In Friends leads me to women who invariably have one thing in common: they are each trying hard–so, so hard–to do the very best they can. With everything. Kids, lack-of-kids, husbands, lack-of-husbands, school, church, at-home, at-work. Some are wealthy, some are not. Some are laid-back, others admirably disciplined. Short, tall, fair, dark, skinny and not-so-skinny (my favorite of the friends, if I’m allowed to say so.) Each one is pushing herself forward, moving her own mountains and, most importantly, letting me follow her around like a loyal (not-so-skinny) puppy. She considers me her friend, too–who’d have thought? And since I have such Great Taste In Friends, that compliment is huge.
Many of my friends live close by, and some live far, far away. But if you’re still hanging on through this shamelessly sentimental post, my guess is that you’re one of my friends, and you do my Great Taste proud. And I don’t care if you’re the smart or pretty or spiritual or funny or frumpy one. I’m just glad you’re here.
Sufficiently humbled.
Sundays always turn my thoughts to matters of a deeper nature. Like humility. A few recent events have reminded me that I might–might–not be as cool and talented as I thought I was. (I’ll let you decide.)
1. Zumba
I went to my first Zumba class at the church last Friday, led by our own lovely, Zumba-certified Monique. She is young and hip and knows how to use her hips. I am not young, nor hip, nor do I know how to use my hips, although they certainly provide plenty of material with which to work. A “pear” like me really should be better at this stuff. (And despite his repeated requests, my husband is stoned if he thinks he’s getting video for the ward facebook page.)
2. Serving as the Ward Relief Society Pianist
“This will be fun!” I naively said after the call was issued. I’ve played the piano since I was young, and though I’m a bit, ahem, “rusty,” hymns are not usually a big problem for me. I was excited to have a reason to dust off these ‘ole fingers and start playing again. And it’s just among my Ya-Yas in RS, right? Surely I wouldn’t get nervous.
Turns out, I do get nervous. Very, very nervous.
The real payoff came today after I played the opening hymn perfectly but missed a few notes on (okay, slaughtered) the closing hymn, essentially skipping over two full measures in my nervousness. I had played the song perfectly this morning at home, and thus my blunders stung all the more. I was determined not to wallow, however, and quickly regained my composure as the meeting ended. Nobody’s even paying attention, I told myself. Just let it go. I left the room feeling proud of my maturity and confidence, painfully earned over twenty years of slaughtering piano pieces in front of church members everywhere . (I knew my lack of talent had a life lesson in it somehow.) However, when several sisters stopped me to pat me on the back and kindly tell me how well I was doing, I knew I was in trouble. People don’t pat good pianists on the back.
Glasses
Got ’em last month. Right now it’s a prescription for reading only, but my lovely optometrist assured me that
a) my eyes would quickly keep deteriorating until I needed glasses full-time, and
b) I shouldn’t feel bad because, you know, “most people’s eyes start going as they near the big 4-0.” (You can imagine how much better that made me feel.)
If I can’t look pretty, I can at least look smart. (And btw: who needs an eyebrow wax and her roots done? Eww.)
It took a lot of humility (okay, narcissism) to post this less-than-pretty picture, but I figured I may as well end the week on a high note. Besides, I’m banking on everyone writing in and telling me how young, hip, and less than the big 4-0 I look in these old-lady spectacles.*
*As I’ve said before, your praise never, ever needs to be sincere. It just needs to be lavish. I’m not picky.