How I Tindered Your Mother

I’ve got a buddy trying to convince me to join Tinder. As if being a single 28-year old man in the bubble of Utah doesn’t make me feel like a big enough loser in your eyes already.

For full effect, download “Loser” by Beck and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. Yeah, that’s right, Loser. I’m stereotyping a very popular social app to a very degrading song from the 90's. Get over it.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Tinder, apparently it is an app where you set up a detailed dating profile that’s five pictures long. From there you are broadcast to hundreds/thousands of people in your surrounding area. If these people approve and they think you’re interesting, they swipe right. If not, and they think you’re an ugly waste of braincells, they swipe left. If two people swipe right on each other, then magically this app puts them in contact and the fairytale can begin!

And you wonder why I feel social media is going to ruin my posterity’s interpersonal skills.

Have we no balls people? And yes, I pose that question to both genders, so don’t get all sexist on me. Why are we at the point where a few flicks of a finger is the most effort I’m going to make on a daily basis to find my match? I already stare at my phone long enough, don’t you think that this is only going to push me further into my addiction of non-social interaction activities? Heck, I’ve been playing Badlands for three weeks straight, I think Tinder would only be the swipe that breaks my pointer finger.

Plus, and this is one of the biggest reasons why I’m anti-Tinder, say I swipe right on a chick, and say she swipes right on me. And say we go out for dinner, and have a romantic doorstep scene, and then a late night second date. Say one thing leads to another and in a few months I’m meeting her Dad with a lump in my throat and a ring in my pocket. And then years down the line I’m sitting with a Bob Saget voiceover telling my kids the story of my eternal romance, is this the line I want to feed them about how the two of us fell in L-word?

Me/Bob Saget: “Well you see kids, I was bored one night while I was sitting around my house in my underwear eating Cheetos, and I saw a picture of a beautiful girl, and right then I knew that she would be my wife. And so, I swiped right.”

My posterity: “You swiped right? That’s how you met our mother? You swiped right?”

Me/Bob Saget: “Well, things were different back in the day with Apps, and iPhones, and hey, I was on the road a lot so give me some credit. I had to find her somehow.” 

My posterity: “Just admit it Dad, you didn’t have any balls." 

Is that the story I want to have about how I crossed paths with the woman of my dreams? I thought she was hot, so I swiped right? Is this what I’m reduced to enduring as a single male in an overinflated bubble surrounded by people who can’t strike up a conversation, and so they use a lazy man’s way of communication for fear that their self-esteem won’t be damaged by rejection? Is this what I have become?    

Jo: “Dude, check this chick out. Her profile says, ‘I like orange popsicles and long make out sessions?’”

Me: “Is she hot?”

Jo: “Damn straight she is, I’m swiping right on her."

Alright, sign me up.

The Best Five Years

I always write some of my best stuff after 3 am.

You can go ahead and thank “The Shawshank Redemption” and a bottle of Dr. Pepper for that.

For full effect, download “Anthem of Our Dying Day” by Story of the Year and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

I L-word hearing people give me advice on how to have a successful marriage. Seriously, every single one of you with a shared relationship status has your own Dr. Phil-ian way of explaining to me why your marriage has made it through all the ups and downs thus far. 

John Doe: “My wife is the best. She lets me golf, hunt, play basketball, do whatever, whenever and wherever I want to. If I tell her I’m going on a week long trip to Powell with the boys, she’s fine. The key to a good marriage is finding that girl who doesn’t chain you down.”

Me: “And she’ll be filing for divorce…how soon?”

I am surrounded by couples. Young ones, old ones, ugly ones, you name them, I’ve seen them. I live in Southern Utah of all places, where 80% of the population is instructed to wed and start popping out babies as soon as the men return home from numerous foreign countries such as Brazil or New Jersey. Because of those ethical standards, nearly every one of my close friends are on the verge of celebrating their copper and bronze anniversaries.

For the record, that’s 7^th and 8^th anniversaries respectably. Thank Woman’s World for that stat.

In my years of people analyzing, I have seen the entire spectrum of “sealed by a higher authority” relationships you can imagine. I’ve seen good ones, bad ones, great ones, mediocre ones, ugly ones, ones where the wife was a lunatic, ones where the husband was even worse, ones where the spouse took a backseat to World of Warcraft, ones where the only reason for sex was to create offspring, and ones where in-laws invoked violence. I’ve been a shoulder for both a husband and a wife to cry on as they went through their separate divorces, and I’ve seen the triumph of a second “first dance” at a reception. You name it, I’ve witnessed it.    

Your married lives fascinate me. To the point where I have begun to lay out theories in my head as to how I think an ideal marriage should be constructed. For instance, there is the 72-hour rule that an anonymous individual created, which states that if it has been longer than three days since the two of them have “made whoopee”, either of them can claim the 72-hour rule and the opposite party is then required to “do the dirty” with the other.

Tell me that’s not curse-wording brilliant. And yes, I did just try and use as many phrases as possible that were made up in the 1970’s to describe love making, simply to keep this post rated PG-13 for my younger viewers.

There is also the “no-couch rule” that another couple I know imply into their own marriage which plainly states that at no time, regardless of the fight the two of them may have had, is either spouse required to sleep on the couch. If there’s a conflict, they will never under any circumstance sleep in a different location than the other. That will only cause more of a rift between the two of them.

These are rules I find unique and fascinating in molding a successful companionship between two people. But then again, it doesn’t really matter what I think an ideal marriage should look like, now does it? Because every one of us has our own format for how we think the perfect couple is constructed. In fact, I assume half of you reading this are thinking in the back of your head, “This bastard is a fool. The way he thinks, he’s going to have a lousy marriage from start to finish.”

Well, I can tell you half of that last statement is 100% correct. And here’s a hint, it’s not your prophecy of me having a piss-poor relationship.

I have seen nearly everything imaginable in my life watching all of you flourish and flop, stumble and smile. I’ve watched your ups and your downs, and have had just a taste of what my life will be like in five, ten, twenty years. I see things I never want to endure, and I see things I want more than anything else in this world.

A short while back I had the chance of spending a few hours with one of the most seasoned couples I know. A pair of lovers whose rollercoaster is a ride that almost all of you would never have been able to get on. A few weeks ago I sat in an E.R. with the two of them as they waited to hear a bald guy in scrubs inform an old college friend of mine that his knee was going to take about 10 months to start working properly.

News like that is only a speed bump in comparison to what they’ve gone through in five years together. 

Later that night we sat in a greased up booth in Denny’s well after midnight, and I watched a dejected husband share a few greasy fries with his wife, and tell her that this seemed to fit the bill for their fifth anniversary. Sitting in a hospital for four hours and then topping off the night with a lumpy milkshake and chicken sandwich was a poetic way for them to celebrate being together for the last five years of their life.

She smiled with a look of gold that agreed with him whole-heartedly, and then proceeded to help load the gimp that he was into their car, crutches, ice pack, damaged ego and everything. Watching their X-Terra drive off in the dark, I chuckled at one of the most realistic pair of people who were celebrating their fifth anniversary together in doctor’s offices and dirty restaurants, with smiles on their faces and a love for each other that would make even Romeo and Juliet jealous.   

Yeah, I want what they have.

Get Busy Livin'

I feel like Andy Dufresne.

Oh, what’s that? Don’t know who Andy Dufresne is? Well shame on you. Stop whatever you’re wasting your time on and go watch “The Shawshank Redemption”. I don’t care if it’s a 12-page research paper, a business proposal, or a make out session with a poster of Fred Savage. Stop reading this post immediately and go watch 2 hours and 22 minutes of one of the greatest cinematic masterpieces to have ever been created.

And then you’ll know what I mean when I say I feel like Andy Dufresne. 

By the way his last name doesn’t sound how it looks. It’s actually pronounced “Du-Frain”. Not, “Du-Frez-Nee”. If you tried to pronounce it incorrectly well, go back to third period French.

For full effect, download “Positively 4^th Street” by Bob Dylan and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

You know those days when ignorant people challenge your intelligence, bombard you with menial tasks, and then blame you for the mistakes they have made, meanwhile taking credit for accomplishments they had no part in whatsoever? You know when you have days where you want to pull your hair from its roots, scream curse words at a ginger and then throw a microwave at a kitten?

This has been one of those days.

And one of those weeks.

Heck, this has been one of those summers. 

By the way, this isn’t the part where you pause your reading, reach into your pocket and pull out your phone to send me some kind of feel good text message that involves a motivational poem on a sunset background.  Seriously, put your phone back in your pocket and stop treating me like a woman going through post-partum depression. God gave me a high enough self-esteem that I don’t need your sympathy.

My life is so curse-wording awesome that I have engineers in Reno who name their body parts after me, so put your motherly instincts back in your pocket and keep reading my rant.

I just need to vent for a minute. And my keyboard is the best listener I can find. Me typing an entertaining blogpost for you to share on Facebook is my therapy for being shoved around like the middle man all day long. Or being reminded that I am the lowest possible segment on the totem pole of my career. I am not the eagle. Or the Bear. Or the wolf. Or the beaver. Or the squirrel. Or the Fish. Or the Fish’s poo. 

I am the garbage that turns into poo. I am the crap on the bottom of the lake that gets turned into watery excrement. And thank you kind sir with an Ed.D whose dissertation that I practically wrote, I appreciate your insistent reminder of seniority and power reducing me to a level of a peon.  Your kind, condescending attitude draped in a plaid tie are what make me want to go buy a Mazda Miata and prepare to embrace my inevitable mid-life crisis.

Are these the kinds of feelings that every man my age is supposed to be feeling when they know there is more to life than just a nine-to-five production line? Is there something more out there that I should be accomplishing? And yes, those last few sentences may sound like I have a yearning to become enrolled in a get-rich-quick, multi-level pyramid formation and refute any ounce of education I have achieved thus far. But no, I don’t see that happening anytime at all.   

All I’m saying is that days like these are when I walk in my front door, drop my bag on the floor, let out a long, disgusted exhale, massage back the migraine beginning to form behind my temples, and just collapse on to my dirty staircase in defeat. Days like these are when I want to embezzle $370,000 of the warden’s hard stolen cash and hop on a bus to the Mexican coast. Days like these are when Andy Dufresne starts peeking over my shoulder and wonders why everyone around him is being so obtuse.

Days like this make me wonder, is this what prison is supposed to feel like?

I have no idea.  But seriously, put your phone back in your pocket and go feel sympathetic for someone else who needs it. 

As for me, I’m making waffles.

The Rules of Women

Growing up I was surrounded by women, covered with them. I don’t write this to propose that I was a heavy-duty pimp daddy who was tossing girlfriends left and right throughout the duration of my adolescence. No, this is only a setup to inform you about how I lived in a house full of females. Eleven of them to be specific. Go ahead and add a pretty girly Dad into the mix who was so emotionally high-strung he would sit and cry at Nike commercials.

True story. The man once bawled his eyes out during a 30-second motivational cut narrated by Magic Johnson that ended with the line “Just Do It”. 

For full effect, download “Doo Wop” by Lauryn Hill and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

I open with the brief history of my feminine-scarred childhood simply because in the 28 years I’ve been traveling God’s green earth there are a few things my sisters have taught me. Yes, in my entire estrogen-caked heritage the sisters I had that were fighting over clothes, over boys, and over chocolate may or may not have helped show me some of the laws and doctrines that make up survival in their world.

I would like to add that growing up I kept a journal mainly for two reasons. One, to have some formal record that I actually existed, because if a female tantrum over who used their hairspray would have left me dead and rotting in a basement closet, at least somebody would have written proof that I was a real person. And two, to record all of the facts of life those women taught me when they weren’t brawling over stolen hair products.

These are those facts of life:

There is never a correct answer to the question “Do I look fat?” Simply present chocolate as a peace offering.

Black shoes are stupid and restrict your wardrobe.

Five minutes in a woman’s time is the equivalent to 90 minutes in a man’s time.  If a woman says “Give me five minutes”, you then have the freedom to change your oil, grill a steak, shoot a deer and watch seven innings of baseball while she puts on her mascara.

Women do not actually care about men’s opinion. If a woman asks for a man’s perspective on something, simply blather on about some random tangent. She’s not listening whatsoever.

Always open a girl’s door when you take her out.

Just because a girl is not wearing an article of clothing to school does not mean that her sister of equal size and shape can borrow that same article of clothing to wear. It stays in the closet.

Sometimes a girl has to come home from work, get all dolled up, hop in the car with her friends, go to the club, and “just dance, they just gotta dance.” Don’t ask questions. 

If a girl says “Go Ahead”, DO NOT go ahead. Go in the complete opposite direction.

Never, EVER reference a past girlfriend on a date. If so, you are only booking a one-way ticket to Not-Getting-Any-Action-ville.

High heels are the most effective and damaging weapon to use when a verbal fight escalates into an all out brawl.

If a woman says she is fine, she is not fine. 

“Oprah” is more important than “Sportscenter”.

Kissing a girl means a hell of a lot more than just kissing a girl. Kissing a girl means you are looking to change your Facebook status. 

It is a requirement to L-word every haircut a female gets.

Don’t. Ever. Touch. Her. Makeup.

If a girl asks for the last piece of chocolate in your hand, you give her the last piece of chocolate in your hand, unless you are looking for her to eat your entire hand. 

Women stop getting older once they reach the age of 39.

A man will never know the pain and agony a woman feels when her uterus is dilating to the size of a pea and back. Don’t ever think a kick in the nuts can compare to her 72-hour torture.

Every man should have the words “Yes dear” and “I’m sorry” ingrained as automatic replies.

And finally, the mother of all rules that should be tattooed on every man’s forehead if they want to survive in the world of women; a man is never, ever, EVER right. 

You Can't Break The Rules

As you can see, my blog has gone through a drastic facelift since the last time you were here. And if you can’t tell, well maybe you’re not intelligent enough to be reading this in the first place. 

For full effect, download “Fashion is Danger” by Flight of the Conchords, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I would also like to add that it doesn’t really matter how flashy or visually appealing a person’s blog looks. If the content they are posting day in and day out sucks worse than any Adam Sandler film post-“Big Daddy” then it doesn’t really matter how good it looks on the surface. If you want to keep people coming back, you have to deliver with your words. 

Or just continue making jokes about kicking midgets. That always keeps people entertained.

On a completely opposite side note, which is in fact the reverse tangent this entire post is going to be heading, I had a heated debate with a girl over an outfit I was caught wearing yesterday. And yes, I did just use the word “outfit”, so what? I still L-word women and don’t swing from the other side of the plate as my understanding of modern fashion vocabulary may be implying.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

While wearing a rather slick pair of pants and collared shirt, I had a conversation with a good friend, a friend who I normally would come up with some witty blogalias for, but then again I gave up the whole childish blogalias/nickname thing when I grew up last month and started sleeping without a nightlight. This great gal who I shall just refer to as M, made a very complimentary statement about my clothes which was followed by an extremely risqué suggestion.

M: “Seeing as how your first day of teaching college will be next Monday, I think you should wear that same outfit. It’s really college professor-esque and it gives off the professional, classy look that you should try and have?”

Me: “Whoa, whoa, whoa, are you serious? I can’t do that!”

M: “Why not?”

Me: “I would be breaking the cardinal rule of fashion, a rule that has higher legitimacy over never wearing brown shoes with blue pants.”

M: “And what rule is that?”

Me: “The two week rule! I have to wait at least two weeks before I can wear the same outfit or I’ll be shamed for being a bum. I’m better than that!”

For the record, I would also like to add that just because I know that you are never allowed to wear brown shoes with blue slacks, and that you never double dip an item of clothing within the same calendar week, does not mean that I prefer the company of men.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

It was at this point when dear M laughed in my face with a guffaw to spite my recognition of parliamentary fashion procedure.

M: “No one will care Brock, that’s the thing. No one will notice that you’re wearing an outfit like that. None of your students will have any idea.”

Me: “That’s not the point. They may not care, but I will. Because I have standards. And there is no way I can turn into a stylistic hypocrite, especially since the values in my life are centered around this rule.”

 

Am I wrong for holding myself accountable for something like this? Am I crazy thinking that a random stranger might know that I’m breaking my own code? Am I a Metrosexual for knowing more than one rule of fashion? The answer could go either way on that last one. As for right now I don’t think I can compromise my morals and wear the same shirt and slacks within six days of each other.  That would be immoral. People would think I’m just plain crazy!

On second thought, the fact that I just wrote a 680-word post on the ethics of wearing an outfit, there is plenty of ammunition to get me booked into a nuthouse.  

It's Them Little Things

Every writer supposedly has a go-to venue for inspiration. For some it’s locked away in a cabin isolating themselves from any human contact whatsoever. Don’t believe me? Go watch “Secret Window” with Johnny Depp. For others, inspiration could be found while taking bubble baths and gorging on a box of Russell Stover chocolates. I assume that last class of people can be stereotyped as women in their mid-30’s, but don’t quote me on that. 

As for me, the majority of my creative juice starts flowing when a midnight run forces me to the point of near dehydration out in the St. George desert. Yes, it may in fact be my personal version of forced hallucination, but either way I think when it’s after 1 am on a Saturday night and I’m logging away the miles on my New Balances, I can come up with some solid material for you to giggle over in church.

For full effect, download “Chicken Fried” by Zac Brown Band and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. And on a side note, please don’t tell Calvin that I might be getting a slight itching for some country music tunes. I can't let that get out.   

Life can be overwhelming at times. You have to agree with me on that one. Every single one of us gets to a point in our days or weeks where we just let out a long exhale, sit back in our chair at work and let a routine sensation of surrendering trickle down through our heads. We get to the point where a whole slew of “big-kid” choices bore us to the point of near hysteria.

I will admit I am not a fan of being a big kid. I don’t like when the Ninja Turtle-loving giant that I am has to halt any type of outside the box thinking and worry about making a mortgage payment. Or when I’m knee-deep into telling an elaborate joke that involves a married couple, a penguin, and a donut and my dialogue gets shoved onto the back burner because a four-eyed supervisor with a mustache wants to interrupt and begin talking about putting cover sheets on my TPS reports. 

Being a big kid takes the glory days out of life sometimes. 

But aside from all of the big kid combustion that begins to be mandatory once we all turn 18, there are a few little things that make being a big kid a little less monotonous. Little things here and there that put a smile on my big kid face. And I’m willing to bet my little sister’s left kidney that they’ll put a smile on your face as well. So go ahead, chuckle a little bit as you read the next few lines. Nobody’s watching you. 

When my turn signal syncs with the beat of the Macklemore song I’m listening to at an intersection.

Not remembering when Daylight Savings Time stops in the fall and getting an extra hour of sleep.

Getting a late-night text message from friends I haven’t talked to in six months.

Turning off the lights and lying down in my shower for 25 minutes to start off the day. It’s my glorious alternative to a snooze button. Try it once and I swear on the holy grail you’ll be an addict.

Digging out the perfect sized crevasse for the gravy in a fresh scoop of mashed potatoes.

Finally wiggling out that popcorn kernel that’s been stuck in my teeth all movie long. 

When the automatic doors at Harmon’s open at exactly the right moment making me feel like the Lord of the grocery store.

Coming home from a long day at work, walking in my front door and immediately taking off my pants. You can’t tell me that’s not a relief.

Signing a smiley face instead of my initials when I go to Maverick.

Being the little spoon. Granted this has happened for only 17 seconds of my adult life because hey, why would a girl want to drape herself around a 6’5” behemoth such as myself? But being the little spoon, heck those 17 seconds were bliss. 

Singing Bohemian Rhapsody in my car and pulling into my destination just as Freddie Mercury lets out the last line of the song.

The smell of a brand new pair of basketball shoes.

Finding the last unbroken triangle in a bag of Doritos.

When no one sits in front of me at the movie theater and I can kick my legs over their empty seats.

Having my footsteps line up with the different color of tiles I’m walking on.

When a girl blushes and smiles at me for opening her door on a first date.

Walking past a trucker in a random gas station on a late-night road trip and both of us on cue give a mutual head nod with no words exchanged. 

Coming to the realization that I am not nearly as clumsy as all of the other Yahoos posting videos on YouTube.

Part of me wonders if I should take this whole blogpost, write it in cursive, superimpose it on to some picture of a sunset or an old canoe on a peaceful lake, and then pin that .jpeg to someone’s board on Pinterest. Because hey, motivational images that trigger emotional responses are what the majority of women would classify as a little thing, right?

But seriously people, life is awesome. And it’s the unending number of little things that happen every single day that make being a big kid that much sweeter.

Wouldn’t you agree? 

Don't Get Short With Me

What’s funnier than kicking a midget?

Nothing.

For full effect, download “Short People” by Randy Newman, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

For the record I would like to give a shout out to the big man upstairs for granting me the freedom of being over six feet tall. I feel entitled. More manly. I feel in debt knowing that I don’t need a stepping stool to get into a Toyota Corolla. Me not being under six feet in height means that I am actually in the top 8.3% of the population, true story. Seriously, Google my stats on that. It has to be posted on the Interweb somewhere.   

The fact that I’m a rather large individual means I don’t really see eye to eye with someone who has been cursed with being a little man. And yes, there was in fact an intended pun you could draw from that last sentence, feel free to laugh accordingly. I am being serious though, I don’t understand how little people work. And I mean that from a mental level, because if you are 35 years of age or older and STILL not above the required height to ride Splash Mountain, then I really don’t see how you can enjoy life at all.  

Coming to grips with the harsh truth of their stature should make any of the little people defensive. That is the correct term isn’t it, little people? And I don’t mean the little people that stand in as stunt doubles for Oompa Loompas, I mean people that are sadly stereotyped for being smaller than average. The ones who are in the bottom 8.3% in body size. The uncles and aunts you have that are forced to sit on the front row of family pictures with all of the little kids. Those people. #bigkidssittingatthelittlekidstable #yomamassosmall #weneedabigboychairforhim #yesijustusedhashtagstomakefunofmidgets

They sure are a fiery batch of munchkins. And rightly so, who out there would be happy if they went on weekend shopping binges for themselves at Gymboree or The Children’s Place? It’s almost a requirement to have a defensive attitude in order to survive life as a short person. If my wife carried me across the threshold into our hotel room on the night of our honeymoon I would be mad as Mike Tyson. There wouldn’t be a single shred of happiness in my entire midget frame. Heck, I’d be on edge until my last days when I was laid to rest in a mini-fridge. 

From my estimation being short gives you a rather inflated case of narcissism, or what I hear science calls “Small Man Syndrome”. And of course you all know what that is. It’s when little men creatures buy big men things to compensate for the fact that all of their friends use their heads as an armrest when standing in a crowd. And so to combat that abuse, they are then forced into buying an F-350 with a Hemi engine even though they can't reach the tailgate on the back.   

Seriously, tonight when I get down on my knees I’m going to thank my maker for the fact that I didn’t reach the peak of my growth spurt when I turned 8. I know with my height I don’t always fit in the coach seats of airplanes, or I whack my head on the chandelier every now and again. But I’ll take those bumps knowing that people will never mistake me for being a leprechaun, or that I never get handed a kids menu when I go out to eat. And if you’re a guy under 5’5” and still reading this post, I applaud you for that. In fact, I actually look up to you.

Figuratively speaking. 

And We're The Three Best Friends

This past week I had a rather deep conversation with two buddies over Mexican food. I don’t know what venue your most profound knowledge is discussed over, but in my case I would like to state that the majority of my own spiritual enlightenment has occurred over a hefty helping of steak tostadas. 

For full effect, download “That’s What Friends Are For” by four random British vultures on the soundtrack for Disney’s “The Jungle Book”, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

When I was five years old I met my original BFF, Courtney Burtis. You may laugh that Courtney is a rather feminine name for a boy to have, but in my first-grade eyes I thought this kid was a pretty BAMF BFF and I didn’t care what his name was. And yes, I did just use two acronyms to describe the guy, so what? Although we didn’t end up being actual BFF’s, I thought our “Best Friends For Grades 1 Through 4” arrangement actually worked out rather well.

I have had many men in my life I would at one point or another place in the BFF category. There was the skater Colby Davis, the pitcher Marcus Moore, the genius Nate Thompson, the jerk Clint Merrill, the baller Niels Hendrickson, the companion Jared Mecham, and the fatty Holland Olsen. At some moment in my life, I viewed each one of them as my most extreme confidant, the one who I trusted more than God. These were my men, and every one of them had their own story.   

This brings me back to the life-altering, head-scratching conversation over Mexican food. The conversation three men had while we told stories of the boys we grew up with. All of us came to the agreeable conclusion that none of the best friends we had as children were actually still our friends. They were in fact strangers to us. I haven’t seen Courtney Burtis in nearly 20 years. And if I were to have lunch with the kid today, I’m willing to bet the two of us would have nothing in common at all. 

“Who is your best friend?” One of them asked me as we ate. Looking up at the ceiling and tilting my head slightly to the left I reminisced about some of my dearest compadres from the past. And then in the most heterosexual way possible I said,  “At this point I must say I would consider the two of you to be my best friends. Where we are right now, at this intersection of our lives, you two would be my closest comrades.” 

Following my extremely non-homosexual confession, the two of them each agreed with me that we were in fact all “BFF’s” for the time being. And despite the fact we did not have a bromance hugfest weeping our eyes out in the parking lot like most women would do after such a declaration, we did in fact acknowledge that our trio could be classified as “best friends”. 

For now.

See that’s the thing about life that makes you stare at the ceiling long into the night, kind of like I’m doing right now. In one instance you think you have everything all figured out and that your path is set in stone, and the people you talk with on a daily basis are the ones you will be sitting on a front porch with fifty years from now playing Canasta.

But things change. People move. Relationships fizzle out. And sooner or later three best friends having deep discussions over chips and salsa will only fade away into nothing and be added to the backburner stack of casual Facebook-status acquaintances.

I don’t know when that point in my life will occur. When will the three of us all grow up and go our separate ways? When will the daily texts we have turn into weekly calls, then monthly voicemails, and then yearly Christmas card updates that we all just stick on our fridges, never reading about each others’ annual family events. When will I claim the value of their friendship to be the cost of a first-class stamp?

And when will I sit at another Mexican restaurant and tell yet another face in the crowd stories about some of my best friends from the past?

Who knows? I guess the moral you might be fishing for in this post is that you should take advantage of spending time with the people you claim to be your BFF’s at this stage of your life. And no, I’m not giving you some kind of spiritual challenge to call them and tell them you L-word them because one day you’ll never see them again. Who the curse word do you think I am, some pathetic Hallmark movie screenwriter?

Things change. Unexpected events in life happen. And more often than not, there isn’t a fairy tale ending for the people we hold the highest esteem for at one point or another. I hope and pray that I remain close with these men until Father Time makes me kick the bucket. The optimist inside me says our kids will get married and we’ll sing at one another’s funerals. The pessimist says I’ll turn into a hermit when I’m 30. The realist says I’ll move on from here and turn into a Christmas card update for these two men. It’s uncanny how that last man’s predictions are so accurate.

But until the day when our friendship is reduced to only being held up by a magnet on my fridge, I’m going to enjoy the heck out of these two guys and cherish every single one of the memories we make. Especially the ones forged in a Mexican restaurant.