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Why she’s The Best Friend

There’s the idea in Western civilization — one that dates back to 11th century and the proliferation of the idea of “courtly love” — that a man and a woman, together, are all that each other needs. “All you need is love.”

Nonsense.

You need all sort of things — food, shelter, chocolate, warmth, water, money to pay bills, and friends. Mostly you need friends. And I’m blessed with a handful of spectacular friends who really are amazing and get me through.

Most of them don’t read this blog. But a few do. The Best Friend does. And when she read my post about buying a bathing suit, she sent me this little affirmation:

I may be thin, but you are domestic diva, sex goddess,
force of nature, stellar mom and promising writer
rolled into one. Food for thought..

Which is why she is The Best Friend, with cap letters. Because she’s got her own shit going on — which is her shit, so I won’t tell you, but it’s heavy and hard to move — and because I have been doing hit-and-run power venting on her for the past three weeks (or, some could argue, past 18 months) and not really spending enough time listening  to her, and she takes the time to haul her ass to the mall and go shopping with me — bathing suit shopping, for the love of little green apples, with almost no notice — and then takes the time to read my whiny blog and then takes the time to write to me to make me feel better. 

I should aspire to be such a good friend.

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Categories: friends
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