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walkabout

Today I called my bestie to talk through some things. I explained my position carefully, a lot of context and padding and carefully crafted explanation, for the sake of “honesty and authenticity.” She listened patiently before responding.


“Dude, you think you’re special?! You’re a bald idiot in a midlife crisis with a corvette and a man cave dating 20-year-olds!” were her wise words, followed by the perfect, maniacal, laughter that makes me love her most (because we both know she’s right, on a few things at least).


We sense we may be at a tipping point in our years and it’s no graceful passage. I love her for saying so -- no bs to sift through, no need to read between the lines. She tells me like it is.


When we were younger, back before the days of cell phones, I could find my way to the party by her voice. You could hear her laugh echoing down the street.


Out in the world I am assertive and bold. But within our trifecta of besties I think I’m somewhere in the middle.


We get restless when things calm down. It feels dangerously like stagnation. We need a good brawl, something worth fighting for, our minds to be ignited, our hearts set ablaze, laughter and movement and constant growth, even as we cry out and pit ourselves against it, even with the risk of being extinguished in the process. It’s tiresome but worth it.


“Somebody told me they wanted a job where every day they showed up at the same time and did the same thing and it gave me acid reflux,” she said, and we both laughed, at some points until we almost cried. Or maybe I was the only one crying.

“Bitch you’re lucky I’ve allowed you to be my friend all these years. Now you’ve got to find a way to be alive again, go on a journey and get to know yourself.”



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