The Human Margarita

Right now I would love to be sitting in a booth at Red Lobster across from my friend, Julie. Julie understands me. We have been friends since forever – since grade school. Catholic grade school. Nuns with clickers. Mass every Friday. Reels of memories.

As special as those memories are, as much as I cherish the longevity of our friendship, what I treasure most is the mutual strength we have supplied to each other since we’ve become mothers. That’s when our friendship exploded (in a good way).

I don’t know where I’d be without Julie.

We go to lunch together once a month. Never fail. Many months our lunch was the highlight of my entire month – the hopeful morsel dangled in front of this up-to-the-eyeballs-in-men woman. Looking back I wonder how I survived. Have I survived? My name’s still on the casualty list, if truth be told.

I am by no means “done” or “there” or have it all together in any way, shape or form. I’m a muddler. I muddle through. Some days are better than others, and on the others there’s Julie. Mostly we e-mail. I pour my heart out to her, or scream in all caps. She takes it all in and writes back something which soothes.

Julie is like a balm or a tonic or – better yet – a Margarita. She makes me feel good again – no matter what. She takes the edge off. Julie makes the little tragedies of life a little easier to swallow. I have never left a Julie lunch in a bad mood. Ever. I actually smile and laugh and talk the whole time. If my dear darlings saw me at lunch with Julie they wouldn’t recognize me!

“Mom laughs?”

“Mom smiles?”

“Really? Since when?”

“Geez, Mom looks…what’s that word? Happy!”

No shi#! Give a mom something to smile at and she’ll smile. Not really rocket science, now, is it?