My friends have always been the response of the Universe to my need. It is no small irony that we met on an airplane appearing to be well-traveled middle-aged girls. We were both traveling, at least in part, for men. We knew we would be seated together. Two flights and a layover later, what could we be but best friends forever? BFF.
This morning we filter our understanding of men through the steaming still of our years on earth, and honor our still sketchy faithfulness to our authentic inner girls. As if they are not quite virtuous enough to trot out in mixed company.
“Nobody wants to be alone,” echoes the whine of another friend, droning drunkenly in my ear through the phone on a different day. These words leap out in synchronic bas-relief. This black diamond of truth cuts through my own resistance, driving me to occasionally more stupid mating behavior as I become older and supposedly wiser. My friend this morning repeats that sentiment. She likes to be alone more than many women, but not always.
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