I Ain't No Hayley Mills

I’m super excited to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.   

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie

Moma Rock

Merryland Girl asked us to swap lives with one of our other bloggers.  I was assigned Froggie, whose real name is Tracey.  We were asked to either talk about living a day as the other person, or the other person living a day in our shoes.  Here’s my take:

  

                  I met Tracey last summer.  We’d both signed up for Wade Rouse’s “Chapter Two” writing retreat to be held in June in Saugatuck, Michigan.  We stumbled into each other online and then, once we realized we both lived in or near Chicago, we decided to meet in person before the retreat.  Tracey and I had a long, conversation-filled lunch at the Macy’s food court, and we headed to Michigan a few weeks later feeling comforted we’d know at least one other person.  (Funny enough, the first person I saw when I got to Michigan was Tracey.  I was standing in the middle of Douglas, Saugatuck’s companion town, looking at the street map, trying to figure out where I was, and she pulled up in her car, also turned around.)

                  In the six months since that trip, Tracey and I have kept in regular touch, mainly through texts and messages and some through this blog group, which Tracey invited me to join last fall.  Even though we live a mere handful of miles apart, thanks to conflicting schedules, other commitments, and some unbelievably nasty weather, we’ve only met up one more time, again for lunch. 

                  Though I call Tracey “friend,” I can’t say I know her all that well, making this assignment a bit of a challenge.  Tracey and I could have “discussed” the assignment, giving each other hints about our days, but that seemed like cheating.  I could guess how Tracey would handle a day in my life, but because my life is not super exciting, I’d have written lines like, “Tracey was painfully bored schlepping the kids to school,” and “Tracey debated between watching DVRd episodes of Amish Mafia or lint rolling cat fur off of her clothes.”  We’re not talking rocket science here.  This isn’t Real Housewives of Chicago.  It isn’t even community newspaper-worthy.  My life is unremarkable – to me, anyway.  It may be quite different from Tracey’s, but it’s fairly prosaic. 

                  Of course, I could have tried to write about a day in Tracey’s life, or what I know of it.  In my opinion, Tracey’s life is much more exciting than mine.  She’s single, which to me means wild and free.  She goes to the symphony and to operas.  She eats dinner out with friends and attends shabbos at friends’ houses.  Tracey works and works out.  She runs!  Meaning my description of my day in her life would have involved repeated use of the phrase “am so tired . . . ”.  (But hell if I wouldn’t have rocked taking care of Tracey’s cat.)

                  Even though I couldn’t think of an interesting way to pull off a Freaky Friday with Tracey, this week’s topic got me thinking about relationships, specifically, friendships.  I’ve been blessed with many remarkably good, strong, and long-lasting friendships in my life, some of which go back more than forty years.  I’ve also been lucky in making new friends as I’ve grown older – including my friendship with Tracey.  Through Tracey, I’ve met the other two bloggers – Melissa and Sara – both of whom I consider friends and whom I’m getting to know slowly and well. 

                  Each friendship I have is unique.  No surprise there.  But all share some commonalities.  Within each, there are inside jokes, those moments we can relive with just a couple of words or maybe even the slight lift of an eyebrow.  Tracey is included in this.  For example, I can say to Tracey, “Laura and the bear!” and she will know exactly what I mean – even if you don’t.  Only my high school friend, Hollie, knows why I call her “Spud,” and only I know why she calls me “Munch.”  I don’t think either of my friends Cynthia or Mariah will ever see a snow plow and not think of me.  On the flip side, there are pieces of myself I share with most or all of my friends:  my sense of humor, my hatred of winter, my love of Bon Jovi.  If you know me even a little, you most likely know these things.  How much of the rest I reveal varies by person:  who it is, how we met, what we have in common, how much I trust the person, how much time we’ve spent together.  This is how it should be because, obviously, no one can know anyone else completely, nor would anyone want to.  But what fascinates me is what we choose to share and with whom, and what they take away.

                  A few years ago, a dear friend of mine from law school passed away.  Alison died young, too young, and her passing shook me and our shared friends.  Her death came shortly before our ten-year law school reunion, and we decided to write a tribute to her to be included in the celebration materials.  We took an interesting approach:  four of us wrote our separate memories and thoughts (three friends and Alison’s husband), and I wove it into one piece.  Simply put, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever written – not just because I felt sad, but because our four sets of impressions and memories were so, so different.  I remembered Alison as thoughtful and kind, unpretentious and fun.  I noted how she couldn’t keep the part in her hair straight, ever.  The other two law school friends recalled specific events they’d attended with Alison and focused on her senses of humor and adventure.  Alison’s husband met her after law school, and he talked more about her as a mother and as a brave fighter.  We were all describing the same person, but we all carried her in our hearts in a different way because, to each of us, she’d been a slightly different person.  And, yet, she was still totally, completely Alison. 

                  A year from now, I might stand a better chance at figuring out how Tracey would live a day in my life, or vice versa.  Maybe.  Our friendship will continue to unfold at its own pace, with each of us only revealing the cards we want the other to see, and with the other honing in on some pieces more than others.  But regardless of what else I come to learn, I am fairly certain that I will still think of Tracey as smart and organized, as funny and supportive.  I am sure I will still think of Tracey as a friend.