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Photo by Nqobile Vundla on Unsplash

Tuesday was her birthday. We have been friends for roughly forty-eight years. But who’s counting? Because seriously? Once you get past the third decade — no one gives a shit anymore. You KNOW you will be friends for the rest of your lives.

That’s all there is to that.

This woman is My Person. We forged our friendship in Hell-That-Was-Seventh-Grade-Homeroom all the way through Marriages/Kids/Divorces and Grandmother Land.

We’ve seen some shit. Let me tell you. We have survived by holding each other up — showing up — being there. Pain, grief, loss, illness, death — you name it. We have done it. Together.

We have done the yin of all it together as well. First dates, summers, karaoke, road trips, and birthday parties.

She was the first Human I ever got drunk with.

She showed up when Make-a-Wish gave my daughter a horse.

She never forgets my birthday — even though it’s the week before Christmas.

She was the only person I trusted to babysit my first child.

She came to visit me in the hospital when I had my appendix out.

She was the first person who followed me on Medium. And for the longest time — the only one who “clapped”.

She talked me down off more Motherhood “ledges” than I can count.

She is my Secret Keeper — ever since I was twelve years old.

And that is a fuck of a lot of secrets to keep.

She is My Person. Everyone, everywhere, needs A Person. I am grateful beyond words that in 1971 — sitting in Ms. Boyton’s homeroom — she chose me.

Happy Birthday to The Best Person Ever! May the next 60 years be a blast! May The Kids forgive us for having their birthday parties at McDonald’s! May our grandchildren think we are forever cool!

May we grow into the Pain-In-The-Ass Old-Women-Without-Regrets we always were destined to be!

I love you forever.

“If I murdered someone, she’s the person I’d call to help me drag the corpse across the living room floor. She’s my person.” — Cristina Yang

Self discovery in progress, stay tuned

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