There women with whom bonds are formed that transcend mere friendship. I never had a biological sister. Kellyann is, quite literally, the sister I never grew up with. Her daughter calls me “Auntie Jen.” We’ve had knock down drag out fights that have been utterly brutal. And we come back to each other because that’s what happens when a friend is a sister. The friendship doesn’t die. We fight for it and we understand each other more for it. That is a love and a sisterhood we made over years of connection and investment.
The following is an excerpt from a text message conversation I had with my BFF in Connecticut. The backstory is she didn’t completely appreciate me text messaging her a picture of the info display in Stupid Scandinavian Car that displayed an outside temperature of 60 degrees at 7:00 tonight.
Snowed-in-her-condo-bestie: “but, but why? were you cheering for the steelers yesterday or something”
Me: “goodness no!”
Me: “I’m a sourpatch kid”
Snowed-in-her-condo-bestie: “watermelon or sour apple?” (huh? Bestie doesn’t ask why I just called myself a sourpatch kid? Bestie just… accepts?)
Me: “apple of course”
Snowed-in-her-condo-bestie: ” well i guess that makes you a tart… lol”
Me: “I shld tell you to take that back, brat!”
Snowed-in-her-condo-bestie: “oh come on you practically laid down a welcome mat on that one… lol”
Snowed-in-her-condo-bestie: “ok, ok i take it back”
Me: “Hahahahahahahahaha! It was clever.”
Snowed-in-her-condo-bestie: “thank you. i learned from the very best… hehehehehehe”
THAT’s what friends are for.
And for letting myself cry snotty-faced over and over and over for a guy, same guy/new guy.
And for reminding me that any woman who can squeeze her bum into size 4 ANYTHING should stop calling herself fat/chunky/hefty.
And for picking my ridiculous ass up when I miss my flight and have to land three hours away from my destination so she can drive me hours to my final destination. No questions asked, no lecture given on better planning and time management.
And for knowing how to make me laugh, hear me rage, or let me cry…. For whatever tickles, affronts, or breaks my heart.
Come to think of it, I think I may have the world’s most frigging awesomest best friend. Even if she does call me a Crackhead. Even if I do act like a Sour Patch kid. Even if we’ve wanted to shake each other with frustration and were one level beneath throat punching.