Someone’s turning thirty and it ain’t me. Can I get a nanny-nanny-boo-boo? Can I get a whoop-whoop? Can I get a “I’m still in my twenties and you are so not?”
Before you think I’m a mean and gloating friend, take in to consideration that I’ve been like a sister with this girl–oh she who is turning 30–since kindergarten and that while I love her to death, she’s been using age against me for over two decades. Meaning, she hit puberty, got her license and gained both the right to vote and the ability to drink in bars first.
And while I would find it somewhat satisfying to spend the next 500 words rubbing in the fact that being born a few months before me has finally come back to bite her in the ass, I won’t.
Instead, I dedicate this column to my Chica–the girl who’s managed to remain my friend over so many years, through so many hard times, spelling and math tests, science fairs, cheap menstrual pads bought by our mothers, many temper tantrums, crappy jobs, zits, lame dates, late night drunken phone calls, multiple boyfriends and breakups, parent trouble, child rearing, house moving, bad hair days and general shenanigans where even someone as faithful as my old dog would have walked out on me in disgust.
Basically, she’s been my friend regardless of how good of a friend I’ve been. Not only that, but I’m pretty confident that after 25 years she actually really likes me and isn’t just pretending. At least I hope so. Regardless, it’s validating to have someone stick with you for so long.
Our friendship is by far my longest running relationship.
So, here in no particular order are just a few of the reasons why I love her to death and why I hope that we remain best friends until we are both ugly and old and discuss things like colonoscopies and argue over the best brand of hemorrhoid medication.
She’s super hot–sorry, but this counts. But even though she looks likes she just stepped out of a music video, she’s never pretentious or girly.
Her sense of humor is divine. I’m pretty sure that this dates back to the fifth grade when I lent her my Frank Delima joke book, which she never returned.
Her family is as colorful as the characters in a Janet Evanovich book. Who knew that Jersey people were so similar to Upcountry podagee’s?
She can make magic with a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup and she always shares her recipes.
At nineteen, she went with me to a male strip show at the Iao Theater. I’m certain that she wanted to get the hell out of dodge as soon as the hairy guy with cowboy boots got down to his fringe bibs, but she not only stayed with me the whole time but was even a good sport when I drug her backstage after the show.
She’s creative and artsy although not in the same slightly-hippie-ish way that I am. She’s an excellent seamstress and was the one to alter my wedding dress the day of my nuptials when nobody else would.
She offered to bring running shoes for me and drive the get-away vehicle if I decided to have a “Runaway Bride” moment at my wedding.
She’s nice to my kids even when I get the sneaking suspicion that she may want to drown them like rats in the bathtub.
We have similar tastes in books. It feels good to be friends with someone who’s not ashamed to admit that she picked up a book primarily for the necrophiliac sex scenes and was disappointed when the descriptions were “vague.”
She has never, ever, ever flirted with any of my boyfriends or my husband and casts Puerto Rican spells on anyone who dares.
She’s a good wife and a great role model. It sounds sappy, but when faced with difficult relationship issues, I often wonder WWCD? What would Chica do?
She’s my personal tabloid. She always knows what kind of stupid shit the celebs have gotten into.
Five words: Shared fantasies of Eric Bana.
She’s never afraid to tell me when I’m wrong–even at the cost of having me bitch-fit–because she loves me enough to want me to truly have a great life.
Happy Birthday Chica. You look great and I would totally card you at the liquor store.
Starr Begley hopes that everyone has a friend that they adore.