The End of An Error

The above is what I said to my friend when she told me she was getting married. It was a slip of the tongue for sure, but we both thought it was hysterically funny. But after we stopped laughing, we cried a bit, realizing that we needed endings in order to foster new beginnings.

I've known my friend Jen for seven years. I picked her, as is my way, because disaster usually strikes those who choose me. We worked in a cube-like environment, passing each other as I clocked out and she clocked in. She wore black every day. Every. Single. Day. Except for her whimsical pink handbags that might have been at home in a Barbie Dream House. I picked her to talk to because she looked exactly like the type of person I shouldn't like. In addition to her black gear, there was also her shaved head, pale skin and southern accent. She was also sullen and withdrawn.

But she was also bright--painfully so. She knew everything about everything, and during the odd moments she'd open up to impart her knowledge, something magical took flight around those dingy cubicles. A Jill of All Trades, but Mistress of None, I set about picking her noggin, because while I'm not great at other aspects of living, I fervently exercise my right to know.

So, we flirted in a completely girly, heterosexual manner after working overtime one evening. We auditioned for our roles as new best friends at a bar. After she admitted she'd married her gay husband to help him attain citizenship (yep, that still works!) and told me one of her great-aunts looks like Robert Guillame sans pigment, it was sooo on. I had nothing as worthy to contribute, but she did seem enamored by the trivial bits of news I'd picked up from reading a dozen or so free papers that day.

She passed me books between shift changes. They had titles like Cunt, Slut and Apocalypse Culture. I let her borrow movies like The Last Kiss Goodnight, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back and Sleeping With the Enemy. Four months later, after she no longer needed to live with her husband, she moved into the empty bedroom in my house.

The first thing I noticed upon cohabitation is that we handled stress differently. She'd become completely still, stop eating and go to sleep at every opportunity. I tend to get loud, eat anything not nailed down, and not sleep at all. I frightened her. She frightened me more.

But there was something....

Sometimes we'd sit for hours and discuss feelings that ranged from anger to apathy. We talked about everything and nothingness. I got her hooked on One Life to Live and Psych. She led me into the world of House and Two Guys and A Girl. During repeats of OZ and episodes of Law and Order: SVU, I listened patiently as she extolled the virtues of Christopher Meloni's neck. She politely humored my rants about my loving hatred of Peter Krause on Six Feet Under. We were magic.

And then, she moved away.

I loved her. I hated her. How could she do this? I'd made the choice, damn it, and this is how I was repaid? We trusted each other with some of our most hostile, vile thoughts...and distrusted each other because of those same thoughts. We were antagonists and were perfect together in that we were both too lazy to do anything to get the jousting started.

She said she'd never marry for love. But on my birthday, I learned that she would marry--and soon. She no longer wished to fight love anymore because knowing me had shown her how important it is!

Me? The woman who taught her how to hug (forcing them on her as I screamed "Black love!"), invading her cold, unwilling space until she finally gave in and now is the best hugger ever? Me, the one who started a row in the kitchen, one so startling that we both burst into tears? That fight sent her into her room, for she was ready to pack. But me, being me, explained that we could hate each other today and it would be all right tomorrow. Honest. If you agree to like me tomorrow morning, I agree to like you right on back. Though I doubt she believed me at first, she agreed. We lived to get pissed another day. And it was...nice.

That's when I realized this person who seemed so alien to me, someone I'd chosen because we weren't supposed to have anything in common, was my sister. Sisters, other mothers, that kinda shit. We began to hate each other openly and earnestly, then, because love--even platonic, sisterly love--hadn't been on the agenda for either of us.

So when she moved away, I thought we'd finally both escaped. We cried and hugged and snotted curbside until she climbed into her friend's SUV and said farewell. I thought I was free. Neither of us is known for the ability to keep in touch.

But Jen does keep in touch. She calls and emails and sends me weird videos. She dealt with two housemates that make my frequent bursts of insanity seem sweet. She got healthier, and stronger, and learned to love herself. And now she's in love with a nice man. I've chatted with him, and loved his laugh--deep from his gut, just like mine. He's smart. He's short. He's loud. Her words. But he makes her happy.

And since I'm not a kid anymore, and can find no rational reason not to be, I'm happy, too. Seems we're both in similar places. Neither of us is trying to outrun our demons anymore. We've both slowed down quite a bit.

Anyway, she swears nothing will change. That's bullshit. Everything will change, and it should. It's been a year, and I'm still not over looking to my right and her not being there (imagine two people sitting in a room for 12 hours and not speaking because both are on their laptops--sending IMs or emails...) She says the same thing about me all the time. Growing up is hard, and we resisted it as long as we could. I'm proud of her progress and she's proud of mine. And now that we both understand that we're lifers in this strange sibling-like relationship we've created, I think we both finally are free. And we each take baby steps to normalcy because of it.