A lifetime's not too long

It was either the end of eighth grade or sometime during that summer when I was accosted by a Teacher or some other Important School Official. "We'd really appreciate it," they said, "if you would show a new student around. You know, make her feel welcome." And I agreed because at the end of eighth grade I was: cocky. a snob. incredibly pleased with myself. This wasn't any regular new student either, this was the daughter of Colonel Hot Shot. Of course they wanted me to show her around.   

I met her for the first time at the base clinic while we were waiting for our sports physicals. She was going to be a cheerleader, I was going to play basketball. I pronounced her name wrong. And I don't remember much else except that we were insta-friends. We just... fit, I guess.

This was a problem at first because I already had a best friend. My old best friend wasn't terribly fond of my new best friend. Things seemed to sort themselves out when the old friend started going out the clingy skinny boy I'd dumped in front of everyone at the pool that summer. My old friend and I didn't hang out much after that, something I've always felt bad about. I didn't mean for things to be that way. But when you are in ninth grade you are very very busy and there is no time to feel bad about friends left behind. And my new friend was awesome. She was just like me, except prettier and smarter and much better everything.

I think that if I were ever to write (and finish) a novel, it would be about girls this age and how Every. Single. Thing. is so incredibly transforming and important. I would have to write about a friendship that only physically existed for one year, but drifted along through two different high schools and showed up at places in college and appeared out of the blue years later when the two girls were older and married and far away and one of them had a baby.

My new friend sent me pictures of her month-old daughter yesterday. I looked at them the way I look at anyone's new baby pictures. Yes. Here is my friend, here is her husband, here is her brand new baby. And then, because I'm the way I am, I looked at them like I would have at fourteen. This is how we ended up.

Twelve years ago I was in my friend's bedroom talking about my boyfriend while she wrapped embroidery thread around strands of my hair and made me listen to Michael W. Smith. We were we those nice smart girls who knew how to use our get-out-of-anything-free cards, we had boyfriends with cars, we were going to Spain for a high school music festival. Things were far from perfect (as my parents will certainly attest!) but it's hard not to think about that time without my heart cramping up because it was. so. perfect.

Twelve years and four or five conversations later, it's a fun and weird discovery to find out we majored in the same things, wanted the same job, married fairly young and, you guys, she looks exactly the same. I'd never go back, but still. Today I really really miss being fourteen.