There are some inside jokes that simply cannot be explained to outsiders.
Not because they’re inappropriate.
Okay, sometimes because they’re inappropriate.
But mostly because explaining them would require forty-plus years of context, several character references, and possibly legal counsel.
“…and I walked out of jail in her corduroy overalls…” is one of those.
It made perfect sense at the time.
I’m not saying who or why…
that will go to the g-r-a-v-e with me!
All you really need to know is that at one point a VERY long time ago…
One of us went to jail wearing the other’s corduroy overalls.
Six of us spent the weekend together recently.
All of us have been friends since at least sixth grade. Some of us have known each other since before kindergarten.
Which means these women have known me for almost my entire life.
Friday night was “wild.”
And I put that in quotes because “wild” looks a little different when everyone is hovering around fifty.
We rallied.
We went out.
We were fun.
We were also, as it turns out, either blind or deaf and completely incapable of functioning in loud, darkish public places.
At some point we all just started laughing at ourselves.
Look at us.
Absolutely killing it.
Saturday we collectively decided we might be better suited for a different kind of fun.
There was a long nap.
Jess gave some of our faces a tune-up, as one does on a girls’ weekend at fifty.
We went to dinner.
Then we came back to the VRBO, settled in, and talked.
And talked.
And laughed.
And somehow it was almost three in the morning.
It was fantastic.
And somewhere in all of that, something hit me.
These women know almost every layer of my soul.
They knew me before careers and husbands and children.
Before mortgages and responsibilities and reading glasses.
Before life got really, really complicated.
They know where I came from.
They know the things that made me.
The things that built me.
And some of the things that broke me long before any of us should have understood that life could do that.
There isn’t much to explain to people who have known you that long.
There’s nothing left to curate.
You don’t have to be interesting.
You don’t have to be funny.
You don’t have to have your shit together.
You don’t even have to be okay.
You can just…be.
I’ve thought about that a lot since I came home.
And I realized I’ve felt it before.
At Marc’s funeral.
I remember seeing these women walk in.
There were so many people I loved in that room. So many people who showed up for me and my family during the worst days of our lives.
But I remember seeing some very specific people throughout those days.
And I remember feeling like I could breathe a little easier.
Something happens when your people are there.
That’s what this entire weekend felt like.
An exhale.
Maybe that’s why, at one point, the floodgates opened.
There was a moment when all of the weight I’d been carrying finally caught up with me.
It wasn’t planned.
It wasn’t particularly pretty.
But I didn’t have to pull myself together.
Nobody needed me to.
And maybe that’s one of the greatest gifts another person can give you.
The safest people in your life aren’t necessarily the ones who make you feel strongest.
They’re the ones who make you feel like you don’t have to be strong for a little while.
I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have people like that in every phase of my life.
Adolescence.
School.
Work.
Adulthood.
Family.
Different people in different seasons who have somehow created places where I could exhale.
That’s a gift.
And I know how lucky I am.
But there is something particularly profound about this group.
Maybe it’s because our friendship began before we really knew who we were going to become.
And good Lord, have we become a lot.
This year alone has been hard on every single one of us.
In very different ways.
We’ve faced things none of us feel remotely old enough to be facing.
Loss.
Illness.
Family struggles.
Life changing in ways we didn’t ask it to.
We’re all carrying something.
And yet…
Look at us.
Still standing.
Still laughing.
Still showing up.
Sometimes we’re holding each other up.
Sometimes we’re just holding each other.
Sometimes we’re doing it from hundreds of miles away.
And sometimes we’re sitting around a VRBO at two-thirty in the morning laughing about something that would make absolutely no sense to anyone else on earth.
I’ve realized that I don’t love these women despite what life has done to all of us.
I love them through what life has done to all of us.
And maybe that’s the part I find so extraordinary.
The wonder isn’t that six little girls grew up and became remarkable women.
Although they did.
I’m ridiculously proud of who each of them has become.
The wonder is that after all the miles, marriages, children, careers, heartbreak, loss, illness, joy, and ordinary Tuesdays…
we still recognize each other.
We still genuinely like each other.
We still want to spend time together.
We still laugh until our stomachs hurt.
We can still sit up talking until three in the morning.
We still know the girl underneath the woman life has created.
And we still love her.
Vehemently.
I’d-still-fight-for-you strong.
I’d-still-show-up-no-questions-asked strong.
And yes…
perhaps even I’d-consider-jail-and-walk-out-in-your-corduroy-overalls strong.
Love.
Laughter.
Safety.
A few tears.
A lot of inappropriate conversation.
And a sprinkle of Botox.
It was the perfect weekend.
Not because every moment was perfect.
But because I got to spend it with people who have known almost every version of me and somehow, after all these years, still make me feel completely at home.
I love these women in ways I will probably never be able to adequately put into words.
Which, for me, is really saying something.
But maybe I don’t have to.
I sure hope they already know.
And if not…
I love you girls!!!
