If You Are Funny, You May Be My Friend.
One of the many reasons I connect with certain people in my life on a deeper level is through humor. I have many people I call friends and who I spend time with but only select group who I consider to be true best friends. These are individuals are by no means collectively similar but exemplify various traits that I admire. Each of my close friends has taught me something or seems to possess at least one trait I would like to embody myself. Of the girls I’ve called friends since childhood they’ve shown me how to be less judgmental (though I admittedly don’t always put this into action), they accept me regardless of what I do or say and they seem to be significantly less elitist than many of my friends in New York. This is a fact that I’ve only learned to appreciate by moving away from Connecticut and a bit ironic given the area I grew up in epitomizes what most of the country thinks about Connecticut.
When I speak of humor, as you know if you’ve read any of my prior posts, I appreciate dry, black comedy and most of my closest friends are like-minded. One friend in particular, a girl I’ve known since I was around 8 years old, is pretty much the female version of my soul mate. She is one of the funniest girls I know and can successfully launch me into a fit of laughter with a few simple words. She is as sarcastic, if not more, than I am and possesses a similar drive to learn more about the world. When I go back to Connecticut I typically spend at least half my time at her apartment laughing at stupid things and talking about books, politics, anything really.
If I could successfully push her to write a book I’m fairly certain it would be a best seller. Her and her twin sister have been close but battling for as long as I can remember. This sibling rivalry has led to an endless series of hilarious situations in which I would only find myself with the two of them. The first time I slept over their house in sixth grade, a Mexican standoff ensued rather quickly as a result of a life or death situation every person finds themselves in at one time or another: Who is going to call to order the pizza? This debate turned combative somewhere around the time the proposal of pepperoni was raised resulting in my friend and I locking ourselves in her room while thwarting off attacks from her sister who stood foaming at the mouth on the other side of the door. While we stood, ears pressed to the door, waiting for the imminent threat to retreat she went searching for reinforcements in the kitchen. She quickly returned brandishing her weapon of choice, a kitchen knife, and began systematically jamming it through the sides of the door in between kicking it in hopes to overtake us through brutal force. I, an only child, was equal parts amused and horrified by this turn of events. I had certainly never encountered this at home… there was no one there threatening to stab me at a moment’s notice and I immediately felt slighted.
Over the years, my friendship with these girls has grown and continues to churn out plenty of ridiculous memories. This includes my being hit with one of my own shoes in a college dorm room after being caught in the crossfire of an erupting argument which I’m sure was as serious if not more than the Great Pizza Debacle of ‘94. That same year came the argument to end all arguments which resulted in the three of us not speaking to each other for at least several days. What else do 18 year old college girls argue about other than whether Michael Skakel’s ties to the Kennedy family were a factor in the state’s inability to prosecute him as a teenager in 1975? Yes, THIS of all things, led to a shouting match most likely horrifying the sane individuals in our dorm. What can I say? I have a lot of opinions. And just for the record, they WERE a factor regardless of what anyone tells you.
Today, even though I no longer live in Connecticut we are still as close as ever. I text them almost every day with some ridiculous situation or person I’ve encountered that only they would find amusing. This entire post was prompted based on a text I woke up to this morning that reminded me how much I love my friends.
One of the sisters was pressured into taking a meditation class last night by one of our other friends and her reaction to said class resulted in the below simply amazing text messages.
Her: A brief synopsis of the meditation session: A rotund, portly gentleman came in late, took the farthest seat from the door requiring him to walk across the entire room, and started the meditation off by shifting in his chair, coughing, clearing his throat and repeatedly wiping his sweaty hands on his polyester pants making a loud swishing sound. He then capped it off by telling the instructor, “When I close my eyes and try to focus through my third eye (a meditation term) I keep getting a headache. Am I doing something wrong?” C expects me to go again next week.
Her: I found myself opening my eyes and glaring at everyone in the room. He’s lucky he got out of there alive. Meditate on that, sucker.
I am completely certain that at the age of 75 we will be on a porch somewhere waving our canes in the air and complaining about the local teenagers ruining the neighborhood. Oh man, I can’t wait.