Because my guy friends are totally lame and refuse to let me braid their hair

Last night while having a late night drink with K, one of my closest and oldest friends (she is not at all old herself, rather we've known each other since we were three), her husband-to-be, and two of their friends, she joked that I should mention her on here, and I nodded in quick acknowledgment. Why haven't I mentioned more of my friends on here? Surely it would make me seem a bit more human if I talked about my friends every once in a while. But what do you say about a friend that wouldn't be better said to them in person? And how do you write it without sounding like you're writing the lost verse of the "Happiness (Is...)" song? (Happiness IS two kinds of ice cream!)

I could just recount to you what we got up to last night, but, well, that would be diary-writing. And I promised myself that I wouldn't make this blog a diary. You don't need to read my diary. I am not Samuel Pepys. Nor am I Bridget Jones. I do not own a set of scales and I have nothing at all interesting to say about the size of my bottom. I am an unfortunate list-maker, however, and so I will start by making a list.

These are just a few of the ways in which my friends, including my dear K, have come through for me over the years:

• Teaching me how to become more of a listener, and therefore how to reduce the chances of making an ass of myself in public. (I use "ass" in the Shakespearean sense.)
• Reminding me that no one cares for more than five minutes when I do make an ass of myself.
• Advising me on how to fix an unfortunate hair dye accident. Instructing me in the proper use of bobby pins.
• Introducing me to Vietnamese food and The Cure. And a pair of tweezers.
• Pulling my nose up out of the books and out into the fresh air of a New York rooftop full of people, a bar on the water's edge, the beach, a fantastic restaurant.
• Presenting me with a gleaming example of how wonderful motherhood can be, not missing a step to set me straight with sageness and wit.
• Talking some color into my wardrobe; then years later, talking it back out again.
• Understanding that sometimes I just need a good dance on top of the cafe bar to "Town Called Malice", and joining in without reserve.
• Accompanying me backstage.
• Handing me the last tootsie roll when I'm about to get my braces put on.
• Totally getting my love for both Joan Didion and The Girls Next Door.
• Letting me be the wing-woman, riding in the wake of others when I no longer feel like doing all of the talking.
• Making me contemplate whether I would ever date a guy who carried a dead monkey everywhere with him. (Monkey gets a seat.)
• Causing laughter the size of thunderstorms to course through my body until I'm weak with tears.
• Reminding me of my beliefs, talking me down off philosophical ledges.
• Taking turns with the roller-skates, listening to Buddy Holly, devising plans for 1920s-themed parties, and calculating how to best incorporate deviled eggs.
• Applauding my over-the-top karaoke rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart." And other things they should never have been subjected to.
• Reminding me of where I came from.

This is the collective resume of my female companions, a brief account of their skills, specifically suited to the task of shifting me from birth to death with better chances of being happy, of laughing at things that are ridiculous (and there are times when we barely remember what we were laughing at in the first place), of not taking myself so seriously. Of not taking this so seriously.

K and I talked about how maintaining these friendships takes effort, and you start to decide as you get older who is deserving of the effort. I'm thankful (and my goodness I really do apologize if this is starting to sound like I should be braiding your hair) that all of these relationships have been worth maintaining. Even with just the occasional letter. But I will get better at that.

Besides, who, if not these women, would remind me that I am not insane for crying at my desk over Johnny Cash's death? Or that public mention of bowel movements isn't always okay? Someone has to make sure I keep my poo references in check. And who would tell me it's worth spending money on a nice party dress every once in a while? And good lip gloss?

Alternatively, my dear K, I could have just written here that I plan on visiting you and your lemon tree and your beautiful birches whenever I need a reminder that life is good, and that people are so very generous.

To express the true ridiculousness of my current sentimental mood, you should also know that I just listened to "You Are the Everything," and it caused me to publicly weep. Listen to the words. The words!

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.