Canoodling for Friends

I haven't been on a date in decades.  I'd like to think that this is good news to my husband, Mark.

But, while I may not have dated in decades, I have felt the giddiness that comes with forming a new relationship. Such is the pleasure of friendship without all those pesky benefits.

Not counting my teenaged stint back in the 70s, I've been at East High for 22 years.  You'd think I would have met everyone there is to meet there by now.  And yet, this year--a year that, at times, was so taxing for me--also was lined with the silvery glitter of new friendships.

Consider Yulia, my sparkly, new friend who texts too much and does Zumba with an authentic Russian accent; Halie and Diane, both of whom endured my stupid lunch-time antics with aplomb and, eventually, an impressive display of sharp-tongued wit; Stephanie, whom I've known from afar since I'd gotten my first LPS job 24 years ago, and who magically and intimately emerged onto my scene like a 17-year locust, vibrant and fresh; Andrew, my cohort and pop-culture savant; Sam, with her impeccable handwriting, excellent stories and surprisingly parallel life; Doug, the musician and techno wonk, our friendship sealed tight after he viewed--and, more importantly, fell in love with--my copy of the Talking Heads' "Stop Making Sense," . . .

With 51 years under my ever-expanding belt, I still find myself valuing relationships over representations of material or professional success.  Given the choice of a three-stall garage or a chance encounter with a future friend (not that anyone's offered me the garage), I'll take the friend every single time.  That's because the friend has the potential to fill me, while the garage?  It is simply there to be filled itself.  And never with anything particularly interesting.

No surprise here, but I was never much of a dater in my youth.  If boys gave me extra attention at all, it usually was because I was a fairly decent kick soccer player who also happened to be able to burp half the alphabet in a single sitting.  Bottom line?  I was not the girl one brought home to mother, unless the guy did so in a "look what I found at the zoo" kind of way.  I'm not complaining, though, because I relish my male friends with the same giddiness I feel when considering all the fine women who've overlooked my faults and called me "friend." 

While some folks have mastered the ability to locate a deeply discounted Coach purse or a higher rung in their corporate ladders,  I must say that I've gotten pretty good at sniffing out good people who will settle for--nay, even celebrate--the "as is" me that I am. 

When it comes to good friendships, it seems to me that what most people seek is someone who shares a steady thread with them, warts and all.  I, for one, have benefited greatly from that spool of thread, its colors ever varying and always able to hold things happily together.