The Story of a Friend

I feel like very few people in this world match my zany-crazy. My friend Brooke is one of these people. We met in college. I was perpetually sobbing into a wine glass taking it day by day, the last two years of my undergraduate degree. After a particularly discouraging gap period spent waiting tables with a college degree, she decided to go back to school for her master’s. Thus began our strangely easy friendship, during which much cheese and cheap alcohol was consumed. She was a bridesmaid at my wedding; the one who gets you super wasted at your bachelorette party and has the hair salon in stitches and tears with her hilarious wit and well-timed comedic flair.

Most importantly, we shared something that very few people share: the beginnings of our teaching careers. By that, I mean we student taught simultaneously, half a state apart. We frequently held 2-minute phone conversations at all hours of the day just to confirm the very real, horrible teaching experiences we had. Sometimes a simple, harrowing text was exchanged:

Today a student dropped an F-bomb at me and then threw his fruit roll up at my face.

We lost touch for a while, but that doesn’t really matter in any great friendship. Fast forward five years and I receive an invitation to her wedding. She’s one of the few music friends I have that my my husband actually tolerates and respects, so we hop on over one day last summer to celebrate her new love. We caught eyes across the room during dinner, and I surreptitiously pointed at the block of butter on my roll and licked my lips slyly. She responded by mouthing the words “I already ate it all” because she acknowledges the relationship we share with food. True friendship at its best.

Two months later, the rekindling continues over the following conversation:

Me: I was thinking about you the other day while I was pooing. You know that’s the real deal.
Her: hahahhahahha. perfect
Me: Pretty much. And I ws thinking about how you would react when I told you you’re in my pot thoughts.
Her: i feel like we need to get together a little cross state private voice *jame sesh again
i want to sing phil collins. hope thats cool
Me: Can we plan one?
Her: dude
heres the deal
what is your schedule like after christmas?

*jam session.

…And the rest is history.

So we met up again last January, consumed mass quantities of burritos and chocolate pudding cake, and she admitted she is considering leaving teaching. This is from the woman who once told me she was fairly confident that she would never marry because the love of her students was the only love she was meant to have, but who has sacrificed nearly everything (including her health, which has seriously suffered in recent years) to educate today’s youth. The important factor here is that she was not happy, and being a martyr for education just wasn’t doing it for her.

She tells me she wants a life like mine and that she is going to request to go part-time at her current position for next year with the eventual goal of phasing herself out altogether. The rest of the evening was spent having a morally supportive discussion about how she was going to do that (there was a lot of nervous step-touching, not going to lie).

Then yesterday, this conversation happened:

photo 2 copyphoto 1 copy

Just when I thought I wasn’t making a spot of difference in this earthly life….Thanks for the bone, universe!

The moral of the story: find your friend, the one who thinks of you when they are pooping. Seek them out and go to them, because they will help you choose happiness, and it will all. be. fine.

 

 

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