GirlsGirlsGirls

09/2005

I’m not what you call a girls’ girl. I prefer the company of one good man to the company of the best women on earth. Ironically, I find myself surrounded by women of the highest order (and one good man from time to time).

Keeping the man to myself, I’ll introduce the women in no particular order:

J is my life-friend. She’s practically my husband, but neither one of us wants to go that far. She’s been with me so long and through so much, I could show up wearing a red snowsuit to a cocktail party and she’d still love me. Oh, wait…I think I actually did that once. Hence, my point. Others call me dork; J calls me Sista.

Two teenage girls come to mind. Most women my age have children. I don’t. I love my position. But watching these girls and their mother makes me rethink it every so often. I’m not sure how she pulled it off, but these girls are the best. When I get reflective and sad, I remind myself I don’t have to finance their vacations. Then I call them up, buy them some great shoes, and take them to dinner. Voila! They love me and I never get blamed for ruining their lives!

Of deep import, there’s my family: women who are experts at everything from Honduran healthcare to sediment dynamics post dam removal. That’s right, I know that
Howard Chang is the Brad Pitt of American rivers. I watched my cousin salivate while describing his expertise over carrot cake one night in New Hampshire. The cake was lost on her. Out west, my sister-in-law is the kind of woman who keeps a thousand balls in the air while brushing her teeth and looks gorgeous doing it.

I have girlfriends who go from place to place promoting my column and merchandise for which I’m deeply grateful because if I were in charge of promotions I’d be as famous as Howard Chang at the Oscars.

So I’m not a girls’ girl. Every girl should get so lucky.