Maura Me to Love

Soph’s bachelorette a couple of weekends ago was pretty epic. 

Note: Of the 3, 354 photos taken, this is one of the few that is suitable for viewing. 

On our last night of wild debauchery, we all went around and shared our favorite memory of Sophia.  Obviously it’s hard to pick just one, but I chose to share about the night that Soph and Matt went out their first date.  Soph went and bought some overpriced outfit at Guess, walking out the door looking gorgeous as usual.  I told her, as always, that she needed to find her to way to the bathroom at some point, and text me her status.  Only a few hours later I was met with, “Maurita, I think this one’s a keeper.”  She came home giddy and excited, sharing stories of how he was a gentlemen who followed her home to make sure she got there safely (Mr. Aerospace, meet Matt Thomas, maybe you could learn a trick or two).  They went out the very next night (not before she returned her entire Guess outfit though – she figured it did it’s charm, time for her money back now).  The rest is history.  Matt became sort of a third roommate, and I watched as Soph fell in love with her big goofy counterpart.  Seriously, don’t let that whole 5’11 beautiful Latina thing fool you – she is a big dork deep down inside, hence why I (and Matt I’m guessing) love her. 

Now, let’s put all the cards on the table.  When you lose your number one single partner in crime, it’s an adjustment.  Gone were the days of trolling bars together (and let’s be honest, all we had to do was stand there and men would flock like a moth to a flame.  If you ever need to be approached by a man, just stand next to Sophia.  It will take approximately 5.6 seconds).   Gone were the daily nights of cooking dinner together, watching horrible but amazing reality TV (“Will you stay and rock my world?”)  So, I cannot tell a lie.  I was sad some days, as Soph and Matt became more of a serious item.  Some days I was even mad (read jealous and missing my Sofa). 

But with just one day until Soph walks down the aisle, I can say without hesitation that I’m nothing but happy for my friend, and if anything, I feel grateful that I got to watch their relationship unfold and transform into what will be a beautiful wedding tomorrow, and a beautiful marriage in years to come.  I feel lucky to have gained a friend in Mizz – a guy who always has my back.

Because it was so hard to pick just one memory that night of the bachelorette, I’ll share just a few more of my favorite Soph/Maurita moments, pre-Mizz days:

• Playing flip cup in our apartment….alone.  Who does this?  We do.
• Going to a club, only to end up in the back of the kitchen, with Sophia suddenly speaking fluent Spanish to all of the workers.  Prior to this, Soph claimed she was just “so so” with her Spanish.  After Goose and Sodas?  Quite fluent.
• UCLA vs. USC game.  Which one you ask?  That would be the one where the Bruins WON!  Soph and I were seated in 1 of the 2 SC sections in the entire Rose Bowl, in our blue and white gear among a sea of feisty Trojans.  We were heckled in the beginning…until we were victorious, jumping up and down slamming into everyone next to us.  At the finale of the game, Soph looks at me and says, “We’re storming the field.”  And then the cops got their beating sticks out.  We changed our minds.  Everything seems like a good idea after you’ve dumped airplane size bottles of rum into your diet coke.
• Buying Mariah Carey’s concert DVD and watching Sophia’s big ol’ mug come up on the TV…about 7 times.  We had rug burn from rolling on the ground laughing so hard. 
• For “inside jokes” sake:  “Yeah it’s my room, I LOVE my room, it’s good people!” & “Like a god damn sheep in a god damn field…noooooobody wants it!”
• And quite possibly, my favorite memory:  on our very first night in our apartment, we had no furniture, just a floor and TV.  So we spread out blankets and pillows to watch a movie.  As we sat next to each other, we realized she was covered in a traditional Spanish blanket, while I was tucked under a green and white throw covered in Shamrocks.  And so began a “Green Bean” friendship.

After Soph moved to the boulevard of stars while I stayed on the beaches of Santa Monica, I made her a blueprint of our apartment, mapping out each room with my favorite memory or moment.  Looking at it again just now, it’s clear to see just what me and Sophia did the most often: laugh. 

There’s no blueprint needed to find the imprint on my heart she’s made, or the friendship she’s given me over the past 5 years.  I love her so much, for who she is, and for always letting me be me. 

I only have one fear for tomorrow’s wedding…the sob factor.  I’m putting money down on the fact that I’m not going to cry, but rather wail.  Ain’t gonna try and deny it.  But unlike the past, it’s not because I’m sad, or even mad.

It’s because I’m that happy for my friend for finding love.  It’s because I feel so lucky to have laughed with her for so many years.  And for many more years to come.

Happy Wedding, Sophia.  You are my family.

Oh Texas, how I love and miss thee.

 Oh Addison, how I love and miss thee even more.

I held it together when saying goodbye to James, to Addison, and to baby Luke…

but when we pulled up to the curb of the United terminal, I had reached my limit.  As I clutched Jess, I burst into tears, so sad to be leaving my friend who I miss so much.  You don’t realize how much you miss someone until you’re hugging them tight, realizing you don’t get to hug them whenever you feel like it…

Tears aside, Texas was amazing and everything I hoped for – sun, fun and relaxation.  And as much as I tried to escape a certain blonde doll, she follows me wherever I go apparently…

I’m actually the culprit who insisted Addison have said blonde doll (gotta keep those sales up right?!)

Regardless, the stress and perils of work disappeared all throughout the weekend, as we hooked some horns…

sipped whiskey and rocked out to Journey…

(Don’t Stop Believin, Jim!)

and played in Lake Travis, Bud Light lime in hand…

And while this wasn’t necessarily “relaxing”…

it was at least a work out.  I really hated it, can you tell?

And I even managed to squeeze in a 2.2 mile run around Jess and James’ lovely hot as hell neighborhood.  You know you’re in Texas when you’re eyeing your water bottle, not being able to decide if you want to drink it or dump it over your head.  Over the head eventually won.  But I give myself props for making use of my running shoes over vacation.  You sorta have to after 20 Bud Light limes and Rudy’s Texas BBQ. 

Oh yes, I did it.  I ate every sinful bite of moist brisket, smoked turkey, and pork rib.  If eating brisket is wrong, I don’t ever want to be right.  Addison agrees…

She wears her sunglasses at night.  Don’t hate.

So now its back to the real world.  To my favorite blonde doll who works me to the bone, to lacing up my tennis shoes at 6:30 am to hit La Cienega for sweaty miles, to veggie and tofu filled plates for breakfast lunch and dinner. 

But not for long.  The party doesn’t stop just yet.

Because this weekend, someone’s goin’ to the chapel…and they’re gonna get married…

No not me, that pretty Spaniard I’m standing next to! (But clearly this should be my Match.com profile picture, as I’m sure it will bring them boys a knockin! )

I shall redeem myself this weekend in a beauty-licious bridesmaid dress, and let my inner Latina out on the dance floor.  For the record, I’m the only single bridesmaid… 

Advantages people, you gotta take ‘em when you get ‘em.

Nothing can bring me down tonight.

Not even this atrocious comparison that the media is trying to make of the real man who is Tom Brady vs. the child that is Justin Beiber…

There is no comparison, so please, stop trying to make one.  There is no Bieber Fever in this house.

Mr. Aerospace battled his inner child today when he ran into me in the grocery store.  Do you think he was a man and said hello to me, asked how I was, told me it was nice to see me, and then carried along his produce shopping ways?  Um, no.  Rather, he practically ran right into me with his cart, locked eyes with me, and then turned straight around and bolted.  As if I was about to egg him with the fresh carton in my basket.  I almost laughed out loud as I watched him get caught between the bananas and the avocados, trying to run from me.  I just continued to strut along in my stilettos internally laughing, while simultaneously wishing that someone would ride around in a van and capture all the children who are dressed up as men.  They seem to running ramped these days. 

But even that couldn’t bring me down, because in just a few short hours I board a plane to Austin, Texas, where the sun is shining, the barbecue is barbecuing, and the lake is chilly and calling “Maurita…come dip your toes in me with a brewsky in hand.  Forget that busty blonde that runs your life all day!  Kick up your feet!  You deserve it!  You’re a media maven!”  I’m a comin’ lake…I’m a comin’.

On the itinerary first is the “UT Women’s Clinic,” where a bunch of chicks who are obsessed with Texas Football gather and…well, talk football, and listen to coach Mack Brown.  I heard there were going to be players there, so I said “Hell yeah!”  There’s nothing more manlier than a man in tight white pants:

Hook ‘em!  And then it’s lot of fun on the boat, in the sun, in the water, and with the Stanleys.  The past two weeks may have been the hardest of my career, and I’m pretty damn proud of what I’ve accomplished…not just in the past two weeks, but in the past 6 years since I jumped into advertising.  I deserve every good thing about to come my way…this weekend, and in the years to come.

And this weekend I’ll tolerate a little man vs. child…especially when it looks like this:

Thank you James for flying me out as a gift to your wife…which feels like an even bigger gift to me.  Texas…here I come!

As I sat and waited for my introduction, my heart was pounding so hard that the microphone attached to my collar started to pulsate.  I tried taking deep breaths, but nothing really worked.  The second my name was said, everything I wanted to avoid happened. 

My upper lip started quivering. 

My hands started shaking. 

And my knees started knocking.  Literally. 

This was a new phenomenon.  Typically my presentations – just like the one today – occur while sitting at a conference table.  Turns out when standing in hooker high heels in front of 100+ people, my knees shake uncontrollably.  Fabulous addition. 

As I started my presentation, I realized that if I didn’t get the lip shaking and knee knocking under control, my opportunity to have an amazing moment in my career would blow right by.  So I pressed my lips together and told myself, “Man up, woman!  You’re going to look like a fool!”  I thought looking at people I know would help, but in some ways it actually made it harder.  So I either stared into a blur of faces, or even locked eyes with strangers, which was oddly comforting.   The whole thing was over in maybe 15 minutes, and I felt like I had just blacked out.  My co-workers and clients greeted me with big smiles upon returning to my seat – job well done!  Amazing that what feels like is happening and what is actually happening can be wildly different.  The day concluded with the BMOC of the company telling me “Great job”…and by name.  

I screamed when I got into my car.  And then had a shot of Patron at happy hour with my co-workers and client.  Some days I love my job. 

Before the shot-taking and congratulations commenced, before I went up in front of the room I tried to remember the email my Mom wrote me that morning… 

My mom has always sent the kinds of emails you just read.  And she doesn’t even have to say those things for me to know how much she loves me and is proud of me.  I know it when I overhear her bragging about me.  Or when she stares at me from afar.  Isn’t it funny that our parents can teach us and tell us how amazing we simply are.  They can tuck you in for 18 years and remind you that you are special.  Unique.  Deserving of happiness.  But the truth at the end of the day is that we’re not always 100% a product of what our parents teach us, despite every best effort. 

Friends,  co-workers, colleagues,  family.  They can tell you every day just how absolutely amazing you are.  None of it matters if I don’t believe it in my own soul.  And sometimes believing takes work.  But I’ve never been one to run away from a little sweat.  Time to grit my teeth, press my lips together, and stand steady on the ground.  All while knowing there will be a little knee knocking every now and then.  That’s okay…been there done that, right?  

And what works, you ask?

Well, as I gear up for my biggest presentation to date tomorrow afternoon, I am forcing myself to remember that while 100 people is daunting, I’ve had to deal with much bigger audiences in the past.

When I was 16 years old, I was blessed with the opportunity to dance with the Disney Young Musicians Orchestra at the Hollywood Bowl.  The same Hollywood Bowl that seats over 17,000 people, and that night was sold out.  During rehearsal, the reality of the audience I was going to perform for never set in.  My mom kept looking at me with one brow raised asking, “You’re not nervous?”  Why would I be, just a standard ol’ jig…and I was a little cocky in those days.  But lo and behold, come showtime when the stage manager walked me out to my starting point, I remember looking out at the 17,000 people and thinking, “Holy.  Shit.”  But there was no time to start shakin’ in my panties – it was go time so I went out and danced about 300 miles an hour to a live fiddler, and created an amazing memory.  There are no words.  You don’t really get that many moments in life like that.

So tomorrow, as I stand up in front of more than a hundred people and make or break my career, I plan to remind myself that I rocked the Hollywood Bowl.  I got a bigger applause than Michael Bolton (hey he had his day).  A few advertising execs?  Just pie. 

The other thing that works is obviously studying, accompanied by sushi and wine nonetheless.  As a sat at the sushi bar tonight, reading my pages and memorizing my commentary, a cute neighbor striked up a conversation, asking what was I working on.  And when I took a studying break to call Kara and fill her in on my latest dating woes, I must have inspired the bartender to give me free drinks.  Perhaps yelling out, “Can you believe what a tool he is?!”  led him to believe I could use a free glass of wine.  I was this close to writing my number down on the check, but I figured I know where to find the generous bartender if I’m in the mood for more sushi and wine…

I didn’t realize that in the midst of studying and preparing, sporting some UCLA gear would force cute boys to scream out, “Go Bruins!” while strolling down the street.  No I didn’t go to UCLA, but like I said, whatever works.  I’ll wear all sorts of sports gear if it gets men hollering at me (with the exception of anything USC or Dodger related…let’s not get crazy).  Apparently me, my football garb, and leftover hair do from Saturday night was workin’ like mojo today.

Not that my mojo apparently worked on Mr. Aerospace  While I didn’t skip home with excitement last Wednesday (who would after your date left you on a dark corner to walk your own ass home) I did think it went relatively well.  He made me laugh, I made him laugh, we sat and talked for three hours for Christ Sake.  But I apparently didn’t light his shuttle engine fire.  I’m by no means heartbroken, but still left a little disappointed wondering what it was about me that didn’t make him want some Maur of Maura.

But I don’t have the time to try to figure it out.  I’ve got presentations to make.  Executives to wow.  Bartenders to attract.  There’s too many things going my way to sit and ponder why someone didn’t think I was fabulous.  I just have to continue to get up every morning, look in the mirror and remind myself that I determine my own value, and degree of fabulosity. 

Now excuse me as I go do one final run through of my presentation out loud to my BU Teddy Bear.   Hey, like I said…whatever works.

When I’d wear pants so tight that you’d literally have to peel them off as if they’ve been painted on. But I did. And to work…

What? I’m in advertising! It’s a hip and fashionable industry where jeggings are completely acceptable. (Mom, so you’re in the know – jeggings are a combination of jeans and leggings). Getting dressed for work in the morning two years ago used to be a little gut-wrenching because of…well, my gut. Day by day, clothes were getting tighter and my options for pants that actually buttoned became limited. I hit my lowest point when I was forced to wear jeans to a client meeting during the first two weeks of my new job, because they were the only pants in my closet that actually fit. I walked into the meeting mortified and embarrassed as I met my clients for the first time, looking unprofessional and feeling whale-like.

My mornings have transformed. They can be gut-wrenching, but only because I pushed myself to run 5 miles rather than 4. After coming home drenched in sweat, I’ll shower, eat a healthy breakfast, and start fingering through my closet for that day’s outfit. Everything fits. Actually I take that back. The other morning, I put on a pair of slacks and realized that they were so big, my ass was harder to find than Bin Laden’s.

This week was full of other nice surprises. I never thought I’d see the day when Match.com would redeem itself. Low-and-behold, it produced a nice, childless, 29-year-old Midwestern boy – we shall call him Mr. Aerospace. After 3 glasses of wine and 3 hours of conversation, I let out a sigh of relief that there are sweet, grown men roaming the streets of Santa Monica. Whether it’s a true “match” is yet to be determined, but it was comforting and exciting to feel in the game. I just wish the game ended with a boy who thought it necessary to walk me home at 11:30 at night, rather than letting me sprint the last 2 blocks to my apartment in 5 inch heels alone. While he didn’t gain points for gentlemanly manners at the conclusion of the night, I don’t think I won any points for my taste in music or TV shows. The poor boy’s heart looked like it broke when I said I don’t watch South Park, The Simpsons, or Family Guy. And that wasn’t the only difference. While sipping on Japanese beer, Mr. Aerospace mentioned that he doesn’t share a lot with many people – while he has a few close friends that he will tell things too, he can be pretty private. I smiled and nodded, but my blue eyes probably showed slight alarm as I thought of my internet diary published on the World Wide Web.

There are nights, very recently in fact, where I stare up at the ceiling in the dark, wondering what I’ve done, exposing my soul for the world to read. I’ve created a vault of information that sheds light onto my fears of being alone, my wish to find love, and my struggles of once being 30 pounds heavier (complete with photographic evidence and all). There are hoards of pages and entries that leave me like a sitting duck, vulnerable and exposed.

I’m not foolish enough to meet someone and end the night with, “And now make sure you visit me at MauraMetoLove.com!” But due to promoting my own damn self on Facebook, or running in the same circle of people who are avid readers, I’ve come across not one but two boys who read the blog that I would have preferred not. I’ve kicked myself, wondering how I thought it would ever be a good idea to talk about myself in a wildly open manner. I’ve left buckets of thoughts and words on here that will let guys make pre-judgments or assessments about me, and it’s all because of my own doing.

While I am my truest self and wear my heart on my sleeve across these pages – it’s not to say it’s the full picture of who I am. It’s a piece, and one that I’ve learned that I must be proud of. Not everyone is open, or chooses to be vulnerable…but I am. It’s in my DNA to be forthcoming, honest, and expressive. I’m a talker, I’m a girl who shares, I’m a girl who doesn’t know how to play the game of “hard to get.” Nor do I think I should have to. If I like you I’m going to say it. I don’t know any other way to be.

After calling potentially the smartest man I know to see what he thought, he was blunt but optimistic. He said, “Maura, it’s going to take a different kind of man to deal with a girl who is used to being so open. Or one that will be okay with the thought of you writing about him.  But there is going to be someone who will read the blog, see who you are, and won’t be afraid by it all. It’s just not going to be easy to come by.” Alessio was so Confucius-like in this moment…until the end of the call where I said I had to get ready for my date and he said, “Make sure you wear something tight.” Ah, back to his typical ways.

Could Mr. Maybe have potentially google-stalked me, found this blog, and said, “Oh HELL no!” Maybe.  Is there a chance that Mr. Aerospace will do the same and be pissed that I called him out for letting me walk home alone? Perhaps. (While pissed he should also take notes for the future, just sayin’). But do I have to believe in my soul that someone will read what I’ve written and think, “What an amazing woman.” Yes, I have to. I also have to understand – like Alessio said – that it might not be easy to come by. But I can wait. Because I’d rather wait than change who I am.

I never thought I’d see the day where I woke up and realized there’s no need to apologize for being me. Take me or leave me, but there’s bound to be someone who’s going to look me up and down in my painted on, hot jeans – and rather than be deterred by my open, forward ways – will find it strong, sexy and consider it a quality. And if not, I have no problem going it alone. Again, changing who I am? Not an option.

We have moments in our life where we feel the switch flip on. I felt the switch to be healthy and happy over a year and a half ago. And the other morning as I looked in the mirror, clad in my jeggings and heels, with my hair in loose curls and blue eyes big and wide, I was shocked. And I felt the switch flip. I never thought I’d see the day where I looked mirror and thought, “I look – and feel inside – simply beautiful.”

From the vaults of Match.com email…

Friday, 12:39 a.m.

Subject:  I’ll Be Honest With You…

I think you’re beautiful and want to hook up so let me know when you’re free and I can come over to your house text or call me since I don’t come on here to often.

Philp (Enter Phone Number Here)

A few thoughts, Philip.  One – you sound, well…like a dirty whore.  Two – I am a fan of men who use correct grammar.  Or even just periods would be nice.   Three – is there something about me that attracts older, divorced men with children?  Because you are the second to contact me.  Please let me know so I can remove whatever it is that you find so appealing from my profile.  The jist?  I’m not up for 40 year olds with handfuls of children.  Sue me if that’s judgemental.

Sigh.  As much as I try to make light of this stuff – because let’s be honest, it’s so ludicrous and unfortunate it’s funny – I can’t help but feel a little bitter.  A little pissed off.  A little “woe is me.”  It’s one of those days where I simply want to throw my hands in the air and give up. 

I get it, perspective is key…I am healthy, employed, living at the beach, and wearing a brand new Ann Taylor dress that garnered many compliments.  I have friends.  Scratch that.  I have many friends.  I am loved.  I get it I get it.  But I’d have to lie to myself to say that’d be enough for me at the end of the day.  I envy those who rest their head on the pillow at night and truly feel complete without being in love.  I envy them…or wonder if they’re full of it and lying to themselves to get through the day.

It’s not to say we single peeps can’t live a rich life.  I run, I work, I mingle.  I write, I savor good food, I inhale good books.  I haven’t locked myself into the dungeons on my bedroom blasting REM’s Everybody Hurts.   But in 5 more years, if you haven’t heard from me…you should probably come knocking on my apartment door to make sure I’m not lying in bed with a cat and a dirty martini, surfing the pages of Eharms. 

Again, being attempting to be to be comical about it is a good remedy sometimes.  Because when we are so lucky in life, as I am, we have to be thankful for what we’ve been given and make good use of it.

But I think the fact is, one can feel blessed and lonely simultaneously.  We can lead charmed lives, overflowing with fortune, and still want more.  For whatever reason, it feels wrong to feel like I want more.  I worry that others are looking at me as if I’m Veruca Salt, stomping my feet and whining (in a British accent.)

Some days I think the charmed life is enough, and in reality, I guess it is.  Can I survive being alone?  Surely.  Do I have to potentially wait years until I find what so many other people in my life seem to have?  Very well could be.

The point is, I just don’t want to.  In the words of the ultimate bratty whiner: I want it now. 

Online dating gives me a headache.  Plain and simple.  It has never boded well for me, yet something in my hopeful, foolish mind thought this time around would be different because…well, I was different.  I was healthier, mentally and physically.  Because of the blog and the marathon, I instantaneously felt more interesting.  There were more mornings where I was waking up, looking in the mirror thinking, “You’re kind of the shit!”

So I thought that perhaps I wouldn’t have to work that hard this time around.  Put the picture up, write a killer profile, and kick my feet up while they flocked to this witty, writing runner.

Enter the crickets.  And then the freaks.  God forbid someone ask me to grab a beer to watch the game, or go to the beach that is across the street which I said I love so much.  Rather, I attract the 36 year olds…who are seperated…with three kids.  Son, did I say in my profile that I was jonesin to be an instantaneous Mom?  Or that I find men who are not yet divorced attractive? 

So I figured – well hell.  Time to get my hands dirty and go trolling myself.  Do the grunt work and click until I found someone legally single and interesting.  In many a case, I was able to eliminate either myself or Mr. (No)Match very quickly.   Tag lines can sometimes do that for themselves. 

“I’m awesome, you’re awesome, let’s be awesome together.”  And moving on. 

Oh this guy seems like a potential fit!  Within his profile he writes, “I like to be affectionate.”  Well fabu, you are talking to a gold-star hugger and hand holder.  Continue reading.  “I want to hold hands, have my back tickled, and snuggle on a cold night.”  Jesus Christ, I’m affectionate but save that for one on one time sweetpea.

Click to the next profile, first description demand: “My girl must love Jesus Christ.”  Pretty sure he didn’t say, “My girl must love shouting Jesus Christ as a reaction to something shocking, funny or disturbing.”

Next!

“She must be good with directions, especially when driving.”  Um, I just got lost on this website, and my Mom and sister are already pooling their money for a car navigation device for Christmas. 

And as much as pictures should not dictate whether you’ll contact someone or not, let’s not pretend people.  Because a picture says a lot…

Jesus Christ.  And that would fall under the disturbing category of shouting that out.  More disturbing…he was oh so normal until this shot.

Tonight I opened my mail after a long day…a blue Monday where the sight of my bank account, work load, and the lack of sleep all caused a frown to plant on my face for the entire day.  I opened my mail to find a message from a normal mid-western boy who loves football.  Heeeeeey!

But then…the first self-portrait.  The second.  And another.  You know what I’m talking about…the one where you pull out the camera, extend that arm wide and take your own picture…300 times.  Oh sigh.  But hey – he’s not currently married and child-less.  And apparently that can be hard to come by.

Yes, online dating gives me a headache – a definite con.  A vault of funny anecdotes that hopefully made you laugh on a Monday night or Tuesday morning?   A definite pro

I am a huge “I love you” person.  I come from an “I love you” family,

and have many ”I love you” declaring friends.

This girl emailed me two days before the marathon to tell me how proud she was of me, and that she loved me.

The Party of Five frequently ends phone calls with “I’ll see you at 7, I love you.”  Just this Saturday, after Sharla ran her longest distance to date, I texted her later in the afternoon to tell her how proud I was of her.  She responded with thanks that I ran beside her, and told me she loved me. 

And me and this one, without fail, we say goodnight on the IM every single night with an I love you.

It’s not to say that I throw it out lightly, but if I feel it, I’m certainly not afraid to say it.  And as I think most people do, I love to hear it in return. 

Freshmen year of college I met an Italian…Stallion.  After I got over my “Dear Diary” feelings for him, we cemented a best friendship that was vital for me surviving college.  Sometimes I think it was vital for me surviving my 20s.  He is the friend that tells you when he’s disappointed in you, causing you to lose sleep at night.  Because as much as it drives you crazy, his opinion matters.

He’s the friend that will threaten to ”slice” a boy that makes the wrong move, because even though he didn’t pen his journal with your name, it doesn’t mean he won’t protect you.  It doesn’t mean he isn’t a believer that someone should and will be journaling your name furiously one day.

He’s the friend that when you put something questionable on – questionable is up for interpretation mind you – he will simply say “Take that off.”  Subtlety has never been his strong point, but god bless him for him wanting you to look your best.  In that very same regard, if he gives you a compliment, and tells you that you look great…Well Christ, call home, or take a head shot, cause you must look like a damn supermodel.    Just like I don’t throw out “I love you” lightly, the Italian doesn’t pass out compliments for fun.  When he says he means it. 

For every similarity we may have, and the almost 11 years of history we share, it’s fair to say that the Italian is not an “I love you” person with me.  It’s not to say he’s never uttered it, but he’s not flinging it around the way the Party of Five does.  But trust me…that doesn’t stop me!  I tell him in birthday cards, when I board the plane at JFK back to LA.  If I don’t say it verbally, my sobbing tears are the translation.  And he laughs in an affectionate manner.  Gives me a big fat hug and tells me he’ll see me soon.

I used to get mad, in the beginning.  In my world, when you tell someone you love them, they say it back.  But we shared a moment maybe 5 years ago where I understood that he could never say “I love you” to me again – for the rest of our friendship – and it wouldn’t matter.  Because he’s made it clear in every way that’s important that he loves me and values our friendship (after all, “I will slice him” were his words, not mine )

Alessio’s been in a relationship for a while now, with a girl I fell in love with the second I met her.  She was not only sweet, smart, and fun, but she was understanding and accepting of mine and Alessio’s friendship, which is saying a lot for a girl.  We can be jealous vile creatures, but this girl is secure and embraced me in the instant we met.  And it was genuine.

The other day I called Alessio with about 7 very vital stories (and by vital I mean not really all that important).  But it had been ages and I was excited to catch him up to speed.  I took a sip of my dirty martini, took a big breath to begin, and he said, “Hold on, I have another call.”  He ended up having to go, his girl was on the other line.  My knee jerk reaction was, “But THIS girl is on the line!”  I pouted for maybe a second, until I began to understand…

We get older, our lives develop, and our relationships with one another change.  As much as we may fight it, dynamics of friendship always shift when one or both of you enter a relationship.  It’s common, and in fact, normal.  It’s undeniable.  But that doesn’t mean you can’t shift with it and settle back into a new way of being.  Into a new dynamic and understanding that we adjust our relationships as a sign of support and happiness.  Because at the end of the day, my big wish and prayer for every friend is that they’re stark-raving happy.  And I’ve seen my best friend become happier by the day, month, and year.  For that I’m thankful.  For that I can adjust.

Yes, I pouted for a second.  But I was brought back to 5 years ago when a light went on inside, and I understood that to love someone does not always mean to speak it.  Some people’s “I love you too” isn’t spoken out loud, because there’s an understanding that even in the silence or in the face of change, the love is very much alive.

But I’m still me.  So because of that…I love you, Alessio!

Everyone has them.  If they don’t, they should.

Those girlfriends who are everything that is right in the world of friendship.  Who you feel safe with, best with, and loved with.

My four girls have been a rock since I was 11 years old, for almost 18 years…the life of a whole person!  I am the baby of the group, the rebel of the group, the party girl of this 5-some. 

They’re all married, or have babies, or are engaged.  But they all leave their men at home every Wednesday night to honor a 15 year tradition of “Girls Night.” 

It all started because of the men with sideburns…Jason Priestly and Luke Perry of course!  We’d gather to watch the drama of the Peach Pit unfold every Wednesday night…until our BH faith slightly faltered, and we were sucked into the perils and romance of Joey and Pacey, Joey and Dawson, Dawson and Jen, it keeps going…

Regardless of the ficticious yet very vital plots we were following each Wednesday, it was just merely an excuse to be together…regardless of the fact that for much of our childhood and teen lives we were together all.the.time.  Girls who jig together, stick together.

As some friends do, we moved apart from one another in very slight notes.  I moved away to Boston.  We met boys, husbands, found careers.  And in reality, it is I who probably lost her way from the 5-some the most, after moving to college and finding a new bustling life with different interests – also known as claiming that Party Girl status. 

I got jobs that gave impossible hours and made me miss many a Wednesday night.  And unfortunately I still do.

But this weekend at a wedding, I realized that they are never far.  They are a safe haven, filled with fun and most importantly love.  They protect me and root me on.  They want the best for me and show me the path.  And as we all rocked out on the dance floor, I had one thought:  I love these girls so much it hurts.

They are my Wednesday night every night of the week.  And even if they’re married, engaged, Moms, career women, or independent…they are always friends.  Best friends.

They are my home.