The Lady Bromance

My best friend and I met in high school – nerdy, awkward, well-read, and generally just over the whole adolescent rebellion thing (because we were far too cool, obviously). The actual events of our meeting were probably really boring – like looking timidly and kind of suspiciously at each other from across a wide, wooden table in the beginning of an even more boring first day of Biology class, thinking things like, “Man, this chick…she probably already hates me.” But years later, we’ve managed to trace back the real bud in our friendship to a single, tell-all moment in our French class senior year, when, in the midst of clowning around and tossing out the occasional sentence en Français in a shameless attempt to appease our poor teacher, she’d turned to me and made a hilarious comment just when I’d decided to take a sip of water. And though what I really intended to do by turning to face her was acknowledge the humor, my laughter simply could not be contained – and all I ended up doing was spitting the water out of my mouth in a massive burst. All over her face.

I sat there, momentarily reduced to the mental capacity of a gnat, waiting for the inevitable scowl of disgust and for an awkward, impenetrable silence to ease its way in.

But all she did was laugh – just wiped at her face with the backs of her hands, asked for a paper towel, and laughed in snorts the entire time, finding the whole thing more embarrassing for me (which it totally was).

And that was it. It was love at first spit.

And, like real true love (and really good wine [which has nothing to do with anything, but it’s just true]), it happened naturally. It took its time, steadily increasing in worth and taste during years of extended school lunch hours buying sandwiches at Subway, midday Starbucks meetings during college breaks, day trips to Monterey, obligatory boy problems always discussed over fried chicken or alcohol or both, a solemn and majestic quest to find the best burger in San Francisco (we still have yet to declare a winner, in case you’re wondering), and so much more ranging from the adventurously idiotic to the mundane, until one night in a now-defunct bar while sharing a basket of sweet potato tater tots, someone made the observation for us in passing:

“I mean, you guys are best friends…”

We simply looked at each other, nodded our heads, and bumped fists like two douche-lord frat guys to seal it.

So it makes sense that, in my venture to write a novel centering on awesome female friendships, my only inspiration is the one I have with her.

It might sound a bit myopic of me, but when I consider the female friendships I’ve read in books, seen in movies, and experienced myself, it’s a no-brainer to conclude that the one I have now is in a league all its own. In the books I read growing up and in the majority of the ones I’ve read recently as an adult, the girls are fighting for spots on the cheerleading team, baking cupcakes, scheming to make-out with boys, borrowing each other’s sweaters, sabotaging each other’s relationships, making each other over, intensely discussing the virtues of manicures, planning their weddings to even the most minutest of details, and generally being kind of all kinds of frivolous. There’s a real focus on an archetypical femininity and female group activity where, it seems, chick friends are constantly written and shown competing with each other for some highly advanced Cro-Magnon’s attention, or shopping together and trying things on, during which they’ll inevitably complain about their weight, or simply sitting around eating ice-cream and wailing inconsolably when the aforementioned Cro-Magnon completely fails them.

But while my best friend and I also shop together, fantasize about our futures with our respective dudes (where we’ll live across the street from each other, just as the universe intended – so shall it be written, so shall it be done), dress up for a night on the town, and are well-versed in domestic activities, we’re also the girls who grew up as tom-boys (she was devoted to playing video games – I was devoted to shoving tiny frogs, and other unfortunate creatures that I happened upon, in my pockets, just to see what would happen); who can very often be found stuffing gluttonous amounts of food into our mouths as we gesticulate wildly and rail against why people are like that; who proudly sing Pink Floyd songs and terrifying Misfits songs in bars, complete with lyric-enhancing miming; who fist-bump, share a secret high-five, curse by second nature, and scare away the neighborhood children playing volleyball dangerously close to our cars (okay, that was her); who wake up at two in the afternoon and stroll into the kitchen wearing a cut-off Led Zeppelin shirt and sweats, then reach inside the refrigerator for a breakfast made up of last night’s cold cuts and a left-over bottle of beer while idly scratching at our bellies (okay, that was me); who would rather watch Superbad instead of He’s Just Not That Into You any day of the week, because we simply relate to it more.

It’s not just a best friendship – it’s a lady bromance.

Where in my past friendships I was made to be the “weird” one, the “nerdy” one, and “side-kick,” with her I’m free to be me – free to quote from the Lord of the Rings trilogy whenever I want, free to talk about how I think true feminism is about choice and about all the many ways I hated my Puritan Lit class, free to discuss books, music, and my chaotic and sometimes overwhelming life  – without ever being made to feel “less than,” or like I have the supporting role in both my own story and in our friendship.

Where for years, I was always the friend who cared more, who called first, who made plans, who remained naively loyal even when I was taken for granted and deprioritized – my best friend sets days of the week aside to spend with me, asks me first when plans come up, texts me random and hilarious messages throughout the day, goes on writing retreats with me every year, finds ways – always – of being around and keeping me around even when we’re not face to face.

Where the best friend past would have noticed two guys at a bar not-so-subtly noticing me as I walked back from the bathroom, and would have thought to herself, “What the fuck? How come they didn’t notice me?”, instead my best friend grinned maniacally when I returned to our table, and proudly said, “Two guys checked you out just now – that’s my bestie!”

She knows the things I’ve never told anyone because they’ve never been easy to say; she was there when I found love, lost it for a while, and found it again; she is always, with unwavering fervor and genuine encouragement, rooting for me to go in for the kill – to go for what I want, no holds barred, no hesitation; she’s come to my defense, come to shed reason, and come to just listen; she knows when I need to take my time and when I need to be pushed; she knows me.

Everyone spends so much time dreaming and hoping for the “love of their life;” you can also have a “best friend of your life.” That one’s just as rare, just as hard to find – and just as worthy of being held onto with both hands, like I’m holding onto mine.

Jayne Wilson is a writer, ornery bookseller, and chocolate malt enthusiast. She believes in literature (except Wuthering Heights); classic rock, metal, and punk rock (except the Sex Pistols); and love (no exceptions). She is a half-Asian mutt and an honorary Russian. She splits her time between the Bay Area and the green hills in her head, where hobbits, gnomes, and the occasional wizard roam free.

by Jayne Wilson