My She-lationship

Men think they invented everything. Take the Bromance, for instance. Apparently, close or best friendship needed a term coined only when men caught on to the benefits of such a relationship but didn't want their heterosexual status questioned. The film I Love You, Man demonstrates the difficulties and challenges associated with male bonding (even if it portrayed female friendships as shallow and less meaningful). For most women, close friendship comes a bit easier. There are countless possibilities as to why this is. My own personal theories on the matter relate to the ratio between word count and monosyllabic guttural noise.* And GNOs.

When I was 13 and had discovered the joys of a daily personal hygiene routine for myself but not anything more comfortable than a ratty sports bra for my newly developed breasts that just kept growing, I met this girl at church. Originally, there was a posse of we silly and over-dramatic adolescent girls. The gaggle of us dwindled as some moved away and eventually others married. By the time I was halfway through college, it was down to us.

Alice and Rookie.

And then there were two.

For eight years now we've been besties. Through lame bridesmaid dresses, lamer boyfriends, grad school, differing hobbies, those six months she crashed on an air mattress on the floor of my bedroom, a crush triangle (I wouldn't dare call it "love"), new career paths, unemployment, life catastrophes, celebrations, three apartments, failures, fights, and successes we've been there for each other. Thick and thin and all that bid-ness.

Needless to say, she's the person I know very best. If I didn't trust her so much, all the dirt she has on me would keep a girl up at night. We hang out most days of the week and still I never tire of her--even if we're roommates.

We're rare. I know this.

Some folks aren't sure which is which (I've been called Alice, she's been called Rookie). But before you start to think this is an eerie demonstration of enmeshed dysfunction, it should be noted that we actually celebrate our individuality. Allyson hates Pride & Prejudice but loves Billy Madison, for one. She is wise, filled with common sense and a knack for winnowing things down to what is most important. My head is in the clouds. She celebrates my rather geeky affinity for the written word. I revel in her deep and nuanced observations on humanity. She loves the thrill of the trauma bays in the ER and the Newborn ICU (she's a hospital social worker), I faint if someone says the word "vein". She's a Vince Vaughn/Jack Johnson kind of girl, my heart belongs to Javier Bardem/Dave Grohl.

I mention all of this because this summer marks 16 years of friendship. Sometime after seventh grade, Alice and I started this road to best friend-dom, wo-mance, whatever you want to call it. I am blessed to have a partner in crime, a sure and steady chick flick date (excepting period piece dramas), and someone to share the rent and inside jokes.

I love you, woman!
Here's to 16 years of memories!
May we have 61 more!

*(Oh, now don't be so offended, boys. I kid, I kid.)

My Rock Star Boyfriend

Meet Dave.

Dave says "Hi everyone."

Ah, Dave: genius behind the Foo Fighters, tattoo-marked, shaggy-haired, sexy in his waif-like/starving artist frame. Dave: My Rock Star Boyfriend.

Yes, I said "rock star boyfriend." We all have one, or have had one. The rock star boyfriend, of course, is nowhere near the same as a movie star boyfriend. The rock star boyfriend is that special brand of bad boy that is always safe in his unattainability. And while some melt over Eddie Van Halen and others over Justin Timberlake, I have always been partial to Dave.

I don't know what it is. Is it his sense of humor (have you seen the Foo Fighters' music videos, folks)? The gruffness in his voice when he's ripping out an acoustic "Everlong"? The way his greasy hair falls in his face? His ability to play any and every instrument which defines the rock star? I don't know. He's a bit odd-looking, to be sure. Not a pretty boy at all. But he has that extra something that for whatever reason has allowed me to engage in a mature, adult, committed, one-sided rock star relationship. Don't worry, in this rock star relationship there are no posters on my walls or false fantasies of Dave writing a song for me one day. There is merely a deep appreciation for everything he does...and that he is male and I am female. Yes, Dave and I, were we to ever meet, would certainly have chemistry.

Dave says "Ah, honey, that's sweet of you!"

Anytime, Dave. Anytime.

So what about you. Who is your rock star boyfriend? And why?

Oh, and, don't tell Dave, but that deep appreciation can only exist because of his safe distance. See, I once dated a wanna-be rock star. He seemed as close as I would get to my dangerous rock star dreams: shady past, his bed was the floor of his barren apartment located in the scary part of town, a whopping two t-shirts to his name, calloused fingers, the sweep of hair in his face. It all felt so ALTERNATIVE, so DANGEROUS, so MYSTERIOUS. One session of him playing a pitiful acoustic version of the great Jimi Hendrix's "Foxy Lady" (directed, of course, at me, and yes it was as uncomfortable as you might think it would be and yes, I did manage to hold a straight face with much concentration) and the image was gone. Poof. That's all it took. Just like that my dreams of dating an edgy, starving musician disappeared. He became just one more dorky, awkward guy with a guitar. And the bad boy reputation: not so attractive up close.