My friends make me goo-ey

Way back in the beginning of the summer, something happened that got me thinking about how kick-ass the art of female friendship is. And no, it wasn’t an episode of Sex and the City.

The particular night of my enlightenment, nothing was too out of the ordinary: it was nine p.m., and I was sitting alone on the couch, eating hummus, painting my nails and sort of watching tv. Then my cell phone rang. It was my best friend-aka my childhood soulmate/sista-Mari calling, and from the moment I picked up the phone, I could tell that something with her was just not right.

Mari didn’t start crying right away, but the tension rose in her voice as she continued speaking, and pretty soon she had dissolved into tears. Just the sound of her crying made me very upset. Because I know Mari so well, I sometimes think I feel her crying more than I do other peoples. (Well, girls. Men don’t usually call me and start crying on the phone.)

I’ve been around Mari’s tears for so long; through skinned knees and the horrors of being grounded, to the heart-break of high school boyfriends and the divorce of her parents when we were nineteen. Plus, Mari cries when she’s happy too, just like her Mom. That’s a whole lotta crying. But her sad crying-well, the noise literally breaks my heart. Even over the phone I can always see the wetness shining around her nose, her chest shuddering like a small childs, trying to catch its breath between sobs.

The night Mari called me, she was crying just because. She felt sad and overwhelmed, she said. She was so….not right, and it was scaring her. The inability to pinpoint the problem made it worse; it felt like everything, she said, and nothing-her job hours, her boss, her living situation, her parents, her body image, her major, her….you fill in the blank. She was sad, and she was sad to be sad. Being sad like this made her feel stupid.

Mari lives with her boyfriend, a very supportive and relaxed guy, and she told me that when she’d gone to him for help-to get out of her funk-he’d told her to, “try not to think about it, babe.”

Um…

Okay, so clearly, the whole yin and yang thing with men and women is what keeps shit exciting (I guess?), but it is pretty comical how different men’s and women’s brains really are. I am currently reading this book by Mona Schulz called “The New Feminine Brain.” (Okay, before you judge, I’d like to point out that I find these weird tomes in my mom’s bookshelves; I don’t go out and buy them.) The book is blowing my mind. Apparently we “feel” a lot more than guys do. Who knew!

So, yeah, telling a girl to just “calm down” or “think about something else” or-my favorite-”try not to think so much” isn’t going to cut it. The guy I’m with (shall I call him Bob?) has said that last one to me a few times. And I’m like, “wtf, if I COULD not think about it, I WOULD not think about it. God, I am soooo stable and sexy right now.”

This is when I love the fact that I have women in my life.

That night Mari called me, when I was sitting on the couch, I felt fine. No, I was more than fine. I was content. I felt in control of my life (whatever that means). I felt like I could help her, and help her see that she was fine, and everything was going to be fine. And I think I did. I allowed her hysteria to peak. This is key: when someone (like a woman for example) is upset, you can’t talk them out of their irrational fear/bad mood until you allow that sadness/anger to reach its utmost peak; then, and only then, do you begin a descent. As Mari calmed down, we began talking about other things than stormy black clouds and our mean inner thoughts. She sniffled and laughed, and then she had to go. She had to go to a party with her boyfriend or something. All was well in who-ville.

I bring this up because the other night I did the same thing to Socialist Jeanine. I called her because I was very upset, but also because I knew that whatever was wrong with me-this thing I myself couldn’t even pinpoint- would be somehow gone, or at least slipping away, by the time the phone hung up. And I knew Jeanine would wait long enough to let that happen, because, like I said, sometimes it takes awhile. Jeanine was on the phone with me for, like, an hour. Bless her soul. And she did the right thing-she didn’t let me talk around my nonsense, but made me deal with it, and thus for awhile I felt very, very sad. And then, after it was all out, things weren’t actually that bad. I felt better. I felt okay. I felt like giving her a big Thelma and Louise smooch.

Real friendship is being able to find people that can be strong for you when you can’t be for yourself; people who you know depend on you as you depend on them; people with whom this very important unspoken agreement exists: some nights, when you are distraught, I will be the one watching Friends re-runs, suddenly wise enough to proclaim that yes, you are going to accomplish something with your life, yes, you are good, and yes, this is all part of “the journey.” And the next week when I am up emotional shit creek without a paddle, you will be the one with the megaphone in my ear saying someday when we’re twenty-eight this conversation is going to make us laugh-we were soooo wound up about nothing; and yes, you are okay, you are good, this is all part of “the journey.”

Aaaaaand rinse and repeat until both ladies appear to be starring in an Herbal Essence commercial of life.

I am not a lesbian, but sometimes I wish I could be. My friends are such amazing women, and I am so blessed to have them in my life. I am overwhelmed so often by their generosity, intelligence and good hearts. And when I get overwhelmed by these things-by their beauty, and energy, and humor-I know that I can call them up, cry into the phone about it, and that this is perfectly okay.