Girlfriends are hard to come by and way more fun than therapy. They are playmates, cheerleaders, gossips, confidantes and shrinks. They know how to remedy problems, whether of our own making or not, and they share secrets, earth-shaking or not. They know when to show up and whether to bring wine or chocolate, casseroles or artichoke dip.
Girlfriends laugh at us and with us. They know who they are and who you are. They help us give birth, get married and raise children. They are there when you change husbands, jobs and attitudes. They know our unspoken thoughts and can finish our sentences. They help us survive the loss of friends and the death of parents. They help us weed our yards and our lives. They tell it like it is, not like we may want to hear it, frequently over coffee and sometimes over a martini.
Girlfriends were created to promote indulgence, especially on facials, new bras and hardback books. They are the guard dogs who will tell us when it’s time to bag the peek-a-boo thong, color the hair, and think about a gluten-free diet. Who else will advise the Old Man that you want a black satin nightie for Christmas or persuade you not to divorce him when he buys a John Deere to mow the yard instead?
Husbands, mothers, sisters and children come with baggage, but girlfriends don’t care whether you pay the mortgage, inherit the family silver or donate to the Audubon Society. They invite your ex over for dinner when he comes to town. They visit your mother at the nursing home. They babysit kids while you get a root canal and the dog when you have an out-of-town tryst. They will make spinach squares for you to take to the book club and brownies when you need something for the Girl Scout meeting.
Girlfriends are your alter-ego. They may not tell you when you are right, but they will always tell you when you’re wrong. They will give advice whether you ask for it or not. They know when to ignore the ironing and the machinations of your teenage daughter. They know when it’s time to stop breastfeeding or to start losing weight. They will be there when your son flunks out of college and your daughter gets pregnant.
While guys are lollygagging on the couch, girlfriends always have big plans to bike, hike and misbehave. Girlfriends go on “field trips” to museums, concerts and funky little B&Bs. They know when you, and therefore they, need to get away from the spouse, kids and bridge club. So they make the reservations, pack the “travelers” and, with next to no notice, swing by for lunch, an afternoon at a gallery, a day at the spa or a weekend in the mountains.
They loan you books and give you gift certificates for massages. They make casseroles when company shows up unannounced. Mostly they listen to endless stories about our nosy neighbors, whacked-out mothers-in-law and awful bosses. They stand ready to remind us that no one promised us a rose garden and that sometimes it’s OK to nip at the cooking sherry.They know us better than we know ourselves. They know whether we need downtime or cheesecake, and they’re always ready to prowl the next yard sale.
My friend Susan grows flowers and children. She travels with pockets loaded with Band-Aids for children and quarters for the car wash. Once she presented me with a pottery bowl she bought at an auction for some do-good organization because it reminded her of me. Small wonder, I had donated it to the sale.
My pal Peggy is a gustatory guru. Our friendship began when I sent my husband over to her house to borrow Kitchen Bouquet for the Thanksgiving gravy and she sent him home with a bunch of flowers. Forty years later I still call her every Thanksgiving morning to ask how to make gravy.
My playmate Jane invented naughty. She dances on barroom table tops, writes letters to the editor and torments telephone solicitors with gusto. We have been exploring unmarked roads for longer than most marriages last.
My girlfriends put the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, the Ya-Yas, and the Sweet Potato Queens to shame. Makes me think how much better off men would be if they had real girlfriends.
