I had dinner with old friends last night. Not old old, like World War II vets (though I’d offer up my firstborn to sit down even for a few minutes with the likes of my great-grandfathers), but rather a couple of ladies I’ve known since college. We don’t see each other often, but when we do, it feels like just yesterday we were getting married and having babies.
Our conversations have changed somewhat. We discuss the absurd cost of in-state tuition for those babies (as well as mammograms and career changes and the best way to remove tannins from red wine), and we use a little more under-eye concealer and hair dye than we once did (not me, thank goodness, because gingers stay red forever!). But for the most part, we are still those starry-eyed girls who met through our goofy, and now gray-bearded, husbands.
Devoted readers will know that the last thing I want to do on any night is go out, especially when my perfect 9 p.m. bedtime is at risk (the struggle is real!). So, there was a moment yesterday when I thought, “Nope. I’m too tired. I’m not going.” How stupid that would have been!
We laughed, we cried (I tell a hysterical tale about my male OB-GYN trying to teach me how to use an incontinence device), we shared the ups and downs of motherhood and marriage. Most importantly, we cherished each other’s company and celebrated almost 30 years of friendship.
I apologize for the sentimentally, but the holidays have me in a reflective kind of mood. And the alternative was my morning spent dry-heaving while sopping up cat vomit.