Quarterly Friends

I have a friend who I have lunch with, perhaps, one every three months. We were fast friends in college – became real college girlfriends. Not the kind where you get naked with; well, not sexual with at least, we have seen each other naked. The kind of girlfriend where you call her up right after you get home from a date and tell her everything about the guy – "his nose seemed crooked; I couldn't help but stare at it", "he tried looking down the waitress' blouse!", or "I think I could be in love". The kind of friend you wanted to share your life with – all the little juicy experiences, the funny moments, and even the pain. That's who we were.

Life changes. She got married to a very rich family. Yes, you don't need to read the last sentence again; I intended on saying that she got married to a very rich family. She fell in love with someone in a social class above us, and she got married. I used to think that there were no social classes in the United States. But that was because I didn't get a glimpse of the rich and figured the poor was like me except they didn't contribute to 401Ks. Sort of naive.

We were still friends when she was married, and at first, I sort of assumed that I would be in the wedding party. Maybe not the maid of honor, but definitely one of those in the tacky, puffy dresses. Not a dream of mine, but an honor I thought my friend would bestow on me. But I wasn't. She explained that her fiancé had cousins and friends of the family that needed to be in the wedding party. I was invited to the wedding – there were eight pairs in the wedding party. Eight! It was the most elaborate wedding I have ever attended or will ever attend, and the only member of her family/friends that was in the wedding party was a brother. Sorry for all of the background, but I wanted to give you a flavor of her and the start of her marriage. She had to make some sacrifices for her marriage – not saying that excluding me from the wedding party was a sacrifice, but it sort of telegraphs the types of sacrifices she may have to start making.

Well that was more that ten years ago. Has it been fifteen years? Nah, a little more than ten. And we have our quarterly lunches – we started having them at "the club," but many years ago, we began meeting around town. I am not part of her life in any real sense, and I sometimes don't even know why we still meet. I wonder if she meets with me to stay in touch with what she was so she won't get totally lost in what she has become. It is hard for me to tell.

And this whole set up is to type one sentence that she told me last week, "It is really hard having money." Like she wanted me to feel sorry for her. She has a live-in nanny helping raise her children; she will never have to worry about retirement; she can buy pretty much anything she wants, and she says, "It is really hard having money."

I felt like saying, "I hear it's really hard to have a cocaine addiction." Or, "It's really hard to be deployed to Afghanistan." Or, "It's really hard when your husband beats you senseless with a baseball bat and you have permanent damage just because you were fleeing with your child." But I didn't.

My short, compassionate answer: "I hear it is really hard to have money."

You see, I have had friends who have committed suicide or attempted suicide, and I always wonder what was so insurmountable that they would see this as the only out. And their lives were not really messed up – there were short-term problems that would probably work themselves out anyway. Okay, I know suicide is really complex, and that people tending to be in danger of committing suicide may have chemical imbalances or other factors giving them that "out" early in life. But my point is that things we may see as no big deal, some people find hard.

I have read lots of strong people lately, and I sometimes think, "I could never survive that." And you know what – most of us probably could survive it because we have to, if given those circumstances.

One last thing – I have been thinking about priorities lately. How and why I spend my time doing what I am doing. Basically, am I doing what I deem important to me? I guess I am asking this of myself to chisel out some time to write. I want to write every day – well, maybe five days per week. And some days, I may have little to show for it, other days a lot, depending on my inspiration. Good thing is that I already write five days per week – but now, instead of this 15 to 30 minute of e-doodling, I will have to carve out another hour or so. Seems doable.

I need to write another light post, for my sanity alone. Have a wonderful weekend, be good, and make someone laugh.