Writing about friends is difficult. More difficult than I thought it would be.
1. I want them to still like me.
You can always count on family to forgive you. Ex-boyfriends, you’re past what they think.
2. I can’t remember what we talk about.
We talk about everything and anything. Over Friday dinner, we cover boys, getting old, cancer, alcoholism, careers, parents and gate-crashing parties. I don’t replay these conversations the way I do with my ex. I say what I need to say, without feeling like I need to impress anyone.
3. I want to capture how awesome they are without being ‘look-at-me-how-lucky-am-I’.
But it’s true. I am lucky.
Lucky to have such friends who make me laugh, think and learn. Biased in my favour but not afraid to tell me when I’m wrong. There for me when I need them most. Before I even realise.
One of the hardest things about breaking up was losing the person who understood me most, in Canberra, at that time. From someone I wanted to tell everything to a shiny, polite veneer.
That was the summer of Baileys and G&Ts. I told everyone I was starting to feel like myself. But when Lisa walked into my life mid-July, I realised I was sleep-walking. She reminded me of my first year in Canberra, when everything was new and I went 'exploring' on weekends.
“Out for dinner again?” my supervisor joked. “Is it a date?”
I just laughed.
When Lisa returned home, I thought of my not-so-new friends here and elsewhere.
Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold.Friendships cemented with sushi and strange Korean films stumbled across on SBS one night. Or blossoming from rivers of blood in Snowpiercer.
As much as I love re-creating myself (à la Holly Golightly), security is knowing who I am.
And who my friends are.