TODAY’S MUSINGS:
I wrote the following piece at the end of 2020, nearly four years ago. Now, we are back to a group of seven. My fears have come to pass, the dynamic has shifted, as we struggle—I struggle—to recapture the equilibrium we once had in our earliest years:
I spent last weekend on a getaway with some incredible women. I use the word “incredible” to describe these ladies because they are smart and funny and interesting, because they dole out compliments they truly mean, not in some obsequious or backhanded way. They’re incredible because they are truly happy with your promotion or new boyfriend and not secretly seething behind their smiles, and because they are accomplished and have opinions. We keep gossip and secrets to a minimum, don’t engage in petty disagreements, understand that true beauty comes in all shapes, sizes, and shades, and celebrate these differences. As individuals, we aren’t perfect, but we accept each other for who we are, including these imperfections.
I am grateful to have this tribe of women surrounding me yet, I must confess, I’m also apprehensive that something or someone is going to destroy this delicate symbiosis we have created. Originally a cozy group of seven, we soon expanded to eight and then nine and finally, there are now 10 of us in this tribe. I love and admire each of these ladies, yet I can’t help wanting each recruit to sign an affidavit agreeing to abide by our unwritten rules of engagement, keeping this precious equilibrium and not doing anything to fuck things up. Where does my female friendship fragility paranoia stem from? Experience.
At age 4 or 5, once I had grown out of my imaginary friend stage, I attempted to forge friendships with the other neighborhood kids. My first attempt was Leah, who lived two doors down and was three years older. Leah, somehow, had been christened the alpha of the neighborhood. She called the shots. Every girl in the neighborhood wanted to be her friend, her closest friend, and would do whatever they needed to be her number 2. We sold out who we needed to sell out and stepped on who we needed to step on. I remember the only time I’ve been truly punched in the stomach—so hard it knocked the wind from my lungs. The assailant was my new friend, Debby, who I had stupidly invited into the posse and introduced to Leah. Debby and 8-year-old Julie were in some sort of squabble one afternoon, when Debby punched me hard in the gut at Leah’s egging, “just punch her, go on, punch her.” The punch was physical, but also emotional—my trust in Debby never fully recovered.
Years later, there was Bonny, who lived in the house between Leah and me. Bonny was older than Leah and would secretly whisper in Leah’s ear to drop me as a friend since I was 3 years younger, just a child, and holding Leah back. They would play Barbies in Bonny’s backyard. I never felt comfortable joining in, although I would watch them over the fence. They both owned the au courant tanned, flat-footed blonde Malibu Barbies and all I had to contribute were hand-me-down retro vintage versions with their permanently high-heeled arches. I felt like I didn’t fit in the clique of two. As an adult, I realize now my Barbies were the first-edition, classics with bias-cut satin dresses, real cork wedges, wigs, and authentic denim clam-diggers. Theirs were ersatz versions—cheap and pedestrian, but at the time, I didn’t know better. I just wanted to fit in.
And finally, around the time I was finishing up elementary school, there was Stella, who would secretly gripe to me about Leah and those closest to Leah, baiting me to concur or say something out of step. As soon as I foolishly did, she would run back to Leah and tell her what I said. Ages five to 12, this is what “friendship” looked like for me. It wasn’t pleasant; I don’t have warm feelings about this time, yet I knew nothing else.
Every few months, there would be a tiff, a fight, a betrayal, and the friendships would dissolve away for a few weeks. But no matter how big the slight, we would always find our way back to friendship. My father, a man who needed no friends himself, would admonish me for going back repeatedly to these relationships. If I didn’t want to be completely ostracized, what choice did I have, really? These were the neighborhood kids. I had no other resource for a different set of friends than the ones proximity gave me. Were my actions any more loyal? Probably not. I was taught early that friends lied, friends betrayed, friends gossiped, and friends were neither steadfast nor trustworthy, that friends could often be cruel. I’m sure I gave as good as I got.
I don’t remember exactly what precipitated my final decision to say ‘enough’ and walk away from Leah and Stella. There was another argument, all the girls rallying around Leah, and me pushed out again. A month or so without speaking, Leah and Stella finally rang my doorbell, surprised I had not relented, I had not asked to be let back into the fold. They wanted to make up. I agreed but never picked up the full reins of friendship again. When I turned down invitations to hang out, they accused me of being snobbish and stuck up now that I was in Jr. High. More likely, at 13, I began to become my own person, embrace my differentness, realize vintage Barbies are iconic and fucking cool. I got to know a wider range of people and understand there was a world of potential friends out there—hopefully ones that would be kind and trustworthy. Although, I must admit, I didn’t fare much better in subsequent years.
In Jr. High, I made friends with Debby—I don’t recall her last name; there’s been a dozen Debby/Debbie’s in my life—a few days before school started. I was scoping out the school grounds, as was she, and we hit it off. We were close in 7th grade, visiting each other’s house and spending the night until a mutual friend showed me a note that Debby had written, scathingly criticizing me and my character. I once again felt betrayed. She called me, asked for my forgiveness, but I pushed her away, closed the door on that friendship.
By high school, she had the reputation of being a druggy—LHSS; Loara High School Stoners. Ah, yes, high school. In high school, I met Marilyn, Marilyn with the low self-esteem. She acted like a good friend and confidant to my face, while she simultaneously drew disparaging caricatures of me and whispered, loud enough for me to overhear, critiques about me, my clothing, my looks. By this time, I didn’t expect anything better from a friend. I just assumed that’s how friends behaved and laughed at her jabs although, they were as painful as that punch in the gut when I was eight. I finally dumped Marilyn when she went off to college and no longer had time for me but, really, she had probably already kicked me to the curb long before that.
Was I just the innocent victim, the scapegoat, in all of this? Hardly. I think about some of the things my younger self did and said to my supposed friends, and I’m horrified. I believed, with my limited experience, that this was how friendships worked, betrayal after betrayal after betrayal. My excuse, if there is one, is look who I had for teachers.
Firmly planted in my 50’s, I am no longer that type of friend anymore nor will I tolerate it from those around me. I don’t disparage my friends, I am truly happy for their accomplishments and—if I am jealous—I tell them, because they’ve done or are doing something amazing that I want to be a part of, too. I admire who they are as unique individuals and am grateful for their support and encouragement, believing in me when I don’t believe in myself. I consider this clan of women to be a gift, a marvel, which should be treated preciously with all the care it deserves so, forgive me if I’m wary of any change in the dynamic—it’s only because I understand how lucky I am to have every one of these ladies in my life.
TODAY’S RECIPE:
When I’m craving something sweet and need a sugar fix NOW, I often bake up a batch of Easy Sugar Cookies, but with an entire stick of butter in the recipe, the guilt factor is exceptionally high when I polish off the entire plate in one sitting. I decided to create a simple coconut macaroon recipe as an alternative. This recipe can easily be halved, so if you don’t want 12 cookies hanging out waiting to be devoured, you can make a respectable six instead.
Quick and Easy Coconut Macaroons
When you need a sweet treat that’s fast and easy, these coconut macaroons come together in a flash and are easily halved if you only want a half-dozen.
Ingredients
- 2 large egg whites
- ¼ cup granulated sugar
- pinch salt (kosher or table)
- ½ teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1 ½ cups sweetened shredded coconut
- ¼ cup semi-sweet chocolate morsels (optional)
Directions
- Preheat oven to 325°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment or a Silpat sheet.
- In a medium bowl, whisk together egg whites, sugar, salt, and vanilla until combined and frothy. Stir in shredded coconut.
- Drop cookies by rounded teaspoons evenly spaced on baking sheet. Bake for approximately 20 minutes until edges and tops are golden. Remove from oven, cool for 5 minutes on baking sheet, then transfer to a cooling rack to cool completely.
- Optional: Place semi-sweet morsels in a small dish. Microwave on high, stirring every 30 minutes until chocolate is fully melted (about 1 minute total). Drizzle over cookies. You can pop the cookies in the refrigerator for a few minutes to help the chocolate set.
