My Bestest Friend

I was lucky enough to stand before the altar (or the mantle, in my case) with two soulmates. One I married, the other held my bouquet as I said my vows.

It is fairly representative of the role of best friends in our lives. With the romantic significant other, we get the wedding, the big trips, the fancy anniversaries. But the best friend is the eternal, quiet support in all of these: the one who helps choose outfits, calms nerves and allays insecurities, and reminds us that no matter how sexy a four-inch heel is, we’re going to regret it later.

Today is Tricia’s birthday, my bestest of friends, and this calls for an Ode to Tricia. She’s 29, and our relationship is now 15 years old. Early on, neither of us had any idea of the strength of the foundation we laid during the years of note-swapping and slumber parties. We later realized how truly precious a best friend would become: I can’t count how many times we have said, whether through laughter or sobs, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.” We’ve had more change in our lives than we foresaw or hoped, but one thing hasn’t: when big stuff happens, the other one has been there.

Tricia and I haven’t lived in the same town for eleven years, but we keep up to the point where we can make a pretty safe assumption where the other is at any given moment. We know each other's backstories, so explanations can be conveyed with a mere look or tone. I’ve gotten some ribbing from others about using the title “best friend,” as if it should be retired to the high school lunch table, but there’s too big a difference. To call her a friend would be akin to calling my mother a mere relative.

I have never understood why people allow friendships to fade in the midst of a relationship. What a waste. It has been a must that our SOs “get” that we’re a package deal: that we spend too much time on the phone, that we consult about minor decisions, that we have no desire to change either habit. Jimmy has taken a strategic approach: not only does he “get” it, but also appreciates it. If Tricia’s there to field the “what shoe looks better with this skirt?” and the "does my butt look big in this?" questions, he doesn’t have to. If I ask him such a question, he just shakes his head and hands me the phone.

Tricia and I stopped calling each other best friends years ago. Realizing how much we grew up together, we figured we deserved a promotion and now refer to each other as sisters. The use of “sister” gets us some confused looks (the hues of our skin are a big indicator we don’t share a mother), which amuses us every time. I carry with me so many mental snapshots of our sisterhood: celebrating our first “real” jobs and “real” paychecks; other times, being so strapped for cash we literally dug out change in our car seats so we could go to Taco Bell; whimpering our way through colds because we share the belief that people don’t give enough pity for the miserable common cold; and even talking for hours on an uneventful day about anything and everything. For richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, it’s always been Tricia. With best friends, the vows are never taken, but assumed.

Maybe as a culture we don’t emphasize best-friendship enough. It’s a lifelong bond that has somehow eluded Hallmark’s grasp. Or maybe that’s what makes it so special: that the relationship will always be there, not amid celebrations and fanfare, but in the quiet contentedness of the everyday.

Thanks, Tricia, and have a very happy birthday.