Sena Schmidt
I called my best friend the other evening because I was having yet another issue with the male species.
For the past ten years of my life this is what I have done.
Always eager to hear (I hate to admit) a much more mature, unbiased and rational viewpoint, I have always frantically dialed her number, awaiting my usual complimentary therapy session with whom I so affectionately refer to as “Dr. Phyllis.”
The joy of having a best friend is reaping the benefits of trust, direction, love and a one-on-one interaction with that one special person, and only that one person, who knows all your problems and exactly how to fix them.
So, like I said, I’ve had the whole package when it comes to my best friend, which would still be just as rewarding had I been forewarned that this package has been updated and now includes her live-in fianc√©e…sharing her life with her and now mine as well.
It was only four months ago when I still had my best friend to myself and when she still had her privacy. Late night chats and gossip fests were followed by cartons of mint-n-chip ice-cream and “Sex and the City” reruns. But then, one guy, one momentous evening and one (gorgeous) rock later and my best friend is now a “we”.
Suddenly, just like that, conversations are spoken in the plural and my problems are now “theirs” to pick apart. Together. As a couple. Yay.
Since that night in late August when this 22-year-old boy got down on one knee, she has become a part of what I call a “we couple” and their dialogue goes something like this: “What do we think about this problem?” “What do we think she should do?” (referring, of course, to me).
As if having boy problems at this age weren’t humiliating enough I am now continuously reminded of two very evident realities: My problems are now on display for the happy couple and I am still single.
Okay, so I am a little territorial of my friendships and I have never been a big fan of change, so pardon me that having my “girl time” shared with precisely the same chromosomal opposite with whom I’ve been having problems with in the first place isn’t exactly my cup of tea.
But, I guess a life change of this caliber is to be expected as a senior in college, where wedding fever runs rampant and 20-something females are trading in their wild, single nights on the Vegas strip for the Susie Homemaker, Martha Stewart status. According to “we”, that is.
“We” also think I should take up a hobby, read some literature on Taoism and tie up loose ends with the ex and recently enlightened me that they’re of thinking of going with “Winter Blue” paint for their dining room instead of “Desert Sand”…”we” says this while holding up an array of paint swatches against a bare wall.
And as I hear “we” argue about the style of their wedding invitations, I can’t help but wonder, “Is this where our girls nights have gone?”
To paint samples and new kitchenware and registries and deliberations on why roses go better with azaleas, not orchids?
The answer, of course, is, “Yes”. This is life in what I like to call “The Marriage Cult,” and I mean that in the best possible way. Really.
I called her again last night just to chat and this time she was attempting to cook dinner for her hubby-to-be.
This, coming from a girl who only a year ago suffered major cuisine-itis and shared my own oblivion on how to work a coffeemaker, came as another shocker on my growing list of reminders that my best friend will soon be a “misses.”
But, honestly, I am incredibly happy for her and have begun to come to terms with their pending label, embracing the fact that I am gaining somewhat of a brother.
She may not be the same high school freshman I met ten years ago who swore she’d never fall into the bureaucratic trap of marriage like the rest of the sheep, but hey, that’s how life goes I guess.
Besides, what in this world could be better than sharing your space, your freedom and your individuality with another person and the two of you becoming one?
It truly is a beautiful thing.
At least, that’s what “we” think.
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