"Best" Friends

I was stymied this week by a question from The Surfer. I was checking my phone/email, and literally laughed out loud. He asked me to fill him in on the joke (a reasonable request). The joke itself was only sort of funny, but he had heard mention of this particular lab friend on several occasions.

"Is she your best friend?"

Me: "..."

Honestly, what can a person say to that question? At some point in life, "best friends" become a thing of childhood, of fairytales.

Best friend?

In a many ways she is. She and I are the only two left at lab from our previously larger and more boisterous group. She is the one that I connect with in many ways, someone with whom I can have a real, honest conversation, whether about family, love, God, research, or good, old-fashioned gossip. The rest of them have moved on--to postdocs and significant others, to Canyon Country, to Belgium, to Florida, to Wisconsin. So at lab? Absolutely my best friend.

But then there are my Bushtits. Words can't possibly depict all of the ways that these two fill my heart and make me smile on a regular basis through their blogs, through our conversations, through our Bushtit Adventures. Our most recent Adventure to Nebraska was so well documented by both of them that I can only point you there and there and return to beating my head against my dissertation.

Best friends?

In many ways, they are. Have we really been friends for more than 10 years? Yes. Traveled together? To California, to Nevada, to all corners of Utah, to Colorado, to Idaho, to Texas, to Ohio, to Nebraska. So to the core of my being that responds to the natural world in a way that is so fundamental, that makes my soul sing? Absolutely my best friends.

I don't see them often and in many ways their lives have diverged from mine, both of them married with children. That doesn't detract from our friendship in the slightest, but our lives are open to different pages.

So what of the friends that have taken me in during this year of upheaval? The ones who cheered me on during my marathon? Who continue to cheer me on during my PhD marathon? How many married couples would open their home long-term, without limits, to a friend going through a traumatic personal time? Would take that friend into their family, and into their extended family? Would welcome my parents and friends to make themselves at home? Would make me feel at home here even when their parents or siblings, nieces and nephews are visiting? Best friends? More like family.

And there are other friends. Friends who I know through the wonder of the internet and the craziness of blogging, who send their support across the miles. There is my divorce buddy, politicking guru, happy hour friend who will be leaving me for DC in a couple of months.

Best friends.

All.

I am truly blessed.

I know that in the next couple of months I will be moving away from the comfort zone that the lab has become. More friends will be leaving California. I will be moving out on my own. In a mere two months I will be joining a whole new class of medical students. I know I will make new friends. And those new friends will not detract in the slightest from the friends that I already embrace. My net simply widens.

Love is not a limited resource, but one that grows when stretched.

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The Nickname Game

Mom, I only wear that shirt in Vegas, I swear. And maybe one other time. Or two, I don't know, but only that once, I think. You can feel free to pretend I never wear it ever.

Once upon a time, a 17 year old girl was about to graduate from high school. She had spent her teen years getting good grades, playing sports, being involved in her church, and generally having good, old-fashioned, wholesome fun with her friends. But then, she met a boy. He was 18; their families had known each other back in the day, and they had friends in common. They spent time together with other friends, he attended her high school graduation, and shortly before her 18th birthday, they began dating. A summer romance turned into a long-distance relationship when she went away to college. Instead of fizzling like most LDRs, this one blossomed. The following year they went to school together. Everything was perfect. Time passed, and the girl graduated from college. They continued their relationship and finally got engaged just before she started graduate school in Southern California. After surviving another year long-distance, they were married in a beautiful ceremony in a small church in their home town. Friends and family wished them well and they drove off into the sunset (to the west, of course) and settled into their California life together. Time passes, though, and people grow apart. After several years together, the girl and the boy parted ways.

As she picked up the pieces, again with the help of friends and family, the girl looked around and came to a realization: She was 30, and she had some serious catching up to do! After spending all of her formative years at a sit-down dinner in the same company at the same restaurant, she knew it was her turn to visit the buffet. Although she informed her friends of her intentions, many of them didn’t realize how serious she was about making up for lost time.

The sampling began almost immediately, for as one friend noted, a line was sure to form. And form it did. But this presented a problem for the girl and her friends. While the line was full of interesting courses, she wasn’t ready to pick a favorite meal yet. And if she wasn’t going to order from the menu, there was no point in getting her friends involved in the food fight. They could meet the entree, but these appetizers were just for sampling. No need to linger over any one course, as delicious and interesting as it might appear. But the courses making trips across the girl’s table did provide interesting stories about new and intriguing ingredients, flavor combinations, and creative plating.

Everyone knows that names are difficult to remember unless one can put a face along with it. And even then, it may take some repetition. Nicknames are much easier, as they reference the story rather than an arbitrary proper noun. Hence, gormeh sabzi will forever be “green stuff.” And the boys will generally be known by some other defining characteristic. One that complements their story. While the boys in the stories generally haven’t met the girl’s friends, they can rest assured that they are being immortalized in fabled lore, for friends love nothing more than to be regaled with tales of the escapades their adventurous, single girlfriends are having. And rather than bother with cumbersome names, the girl generally substitutes some sort of nickname, so that the friends will easily be able to recall the stories associated with each boy.

Nicknames are not complicated or fancy, simply descriptive handles given to each course enjoyed by the girl. Some are given by the girl, and some by her friends. They may be based on a physical characteristic: The Tall One, Blondie, Short, Tree Boy. Sometimes it is as simple as where they are from: Texas, Bay Area, The Brazilian. Other nicknames are earned by personality traits or personal history: Shy Guy, Pushy, Fulbright, The Bad Kisser. Still others relate to hobbies or profession: The Surfer, The Grad Student, The Accountant, The Breast Implant Sales Rep.

So boys, now you know: you have been given different nicknames by different girls, and the friends of those girls associate those nicknames with all manner of details about your personality, habits and physical traits. Be careful what you are known for.

BTW, this is my 21st post here, which is fitting, I think, although it points out my shamefully infrequent posting...

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Epic, Dude.

Lest you think that all I do is sit around moaning about my PhD, taking artsy pictures and writing melancholy, introspective drivel, let's have a change of pace.

A week and a half ago, I had my first surfing lesson. My friend informed me that I had no idea how lucky I was, that the conditions were "epic" and I wouldn't see anything like it for years. And it truly was a gorgeous, sunny, 70 degree January day in La Jolla. The waves were 10 feet according to the surf report, although some of them looked much larger than that to my terrified newbie eyes. He was kind/wise enough to take me down the beach from the big swell, where I could attempt to wobble to my feet on the longboard in 3-4 foot surf rather than getting clobbered/killed by the big waves.

Surfing is HARD WORK, did you know it? "Paddle, paddle, paddle!" I'm in reasonably good shape, but by the end of the session my shoulders and back felt like noodles. I did manage to catch several waves, and even get to my feet on two of them! (Although I am told that I need to practice my "pop-up" skills.)

It was only when I peeled off my wetsuit back at the condo that I discovered the epic bruise. Either the edge of the board or one of the fins had made serious contact with my thigh, leaving a pale impact line flanked by dark purple half-moons. I love a good (non-serious) injury when I've been doing something active. Road-rash/bruising/a little swelling--it's a souvenir, something I can show off to my friends as a visual aid to a good story.

Over the next week it darkened and morphed into a slightly strange shape, although you could still see the line through the middle of it between the purple edges. When I showed it to the surfer last weekend, he was duly impressed. But upon closer inspection, he was amazed. "It looks JUST LIKE the Billabong logo!" he said. A quick internet search confirmed that he was exactly right. Surf company logo bruise from a surfing lesson. How poetic is that?

Bruise:



Billabong logo:



He suggested that I send the picture to the company to see if they'll give me some free stuff.

And because I was bored, I enhanced it with a Sharpie in case it wasn't clear enough before:

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Monochrome

I'm having one of those days where I question my sanity.

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Writing about things a sane person wouldn't put up on the Internet for the Whole World to read

Volatile. That is the first word I would choose to describe my moods since the divorce. When you have been shutting down and putting a lid on negative emotions for so long, you become numb to the positive ones as well. In the process of emerging from the avalanche, I began to allow myself to connect to my gut, instinct and emotions in a way that my brain had refused to allow for years. Combine that with the level of upheaval inherent in splitting apart two intertwined lives and you get peaks and valleys the likes of which never crossed your previously flat affect.

When my therapist would ask me how I was doing, I would moan, "I don't know, I'm just all over the map!" A big part of me wanted to regain the even keel of my previous life. But a stronger part realized that the view and exhilaration of being at the top of one of those waves was worth the dizzying slide into the trough, and even the breaking of the wave over me at the bottom that sent me spinning under the water and gasping for breath.

While the waves have died down a bit, even the events in a single day can send me from tears of frustration to giddy glee in a matter of hours. And I am coming to the place where I feel like those highs and lows are not only something I can ride without capsizing, they are something I look forward to. I know everyone comes out of a divorce with some degree of baggage. But I have worked very hard over the last year (see: therapy, it's a good thing) to keep the emotional baggage to a relatively low level. I'm pretty proud of that.

Oh, I have baggage. It's just more fiscal in nature. And that's all I'm going to say about that. Except this, re: dating...when I go out with a guy who has a good job, owns a house, and drives a nice car, and I am a dirt-poor student who rents a room and drives a car that will hopefully keep running without a major incident until graduation in addition to carrying the aforementioned financial baggage (wow, I sound like a catch!), I don't put up much fight about letting him pay. But then my inner feminist weeps, and wails, "why should he have to pay, just because he's the guy?" and I try to shush her with talk of those financial ISSUES, but still, there is the guilt! But the pleasure of my company is totally worth it, right? And maybe he SHOULD have to pay, especially if he can't rake together the gumption to even KISS me until the third date, geez! See? The waves, they are wavy. Financial woes, feminist angst, and first kisses, all in the same day.

Um, what was I saying about my low level of emotional baggage?

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Does anybody have a map? I'm new in town...

Hypothetically speaking:

If, over the course of an otherwise lovely evening, your date almost entirely loses her voice, would you kiss her good night?

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