Mae and I flew to New York City last week for a few days
with my friend, Megan. Megan, as
I’ve said here before, is one of my oldest and closest friends. She and Evany, who completed our
threesome in high school, are more sisters than friends. We grew to the same height, all wear
size 9 shoes, have dirty blonde hair (though I’m currently bleached, Megan is
red and Evany is a sun-kissed Clairol).
We talk over each other, we bend over with giggles, we can be careless
with feelings, we weep on a dime; we behave like the fourteen-year-olds we were
when we met. We are present at
births and deaths, unions and break-ups.
We show up and we hold each other’s hands.
I’ve taken many trips to see Megan by myself. These are girl holidays; marathons of
chatting, shopping and downing red wine.
This last time was the first I’ve brought a child. But let it be said that this is my
ten-year-old. This is Mae who I do
believe might be further down the emotional evolutionary chain than yours
truly. She, like her sister, is a
good girlfriend. She knows how to
listen, how to gossip and most of all, how to accessorize.
The trip had many highlights (earring hunting on the streets
of Soho, two visits to Dylan’s Candy Bar, the careful selection of outfits each
morning) but the moment that really stands out, uncharacteristically for me, is
when we went to see “Wicked”.
I’m an old actress remember (older by the minute) and, like
my grungy, starving, die-hard artistic peers, the Broadway musical has always
struck me as, well, too broad. The
constant jazz-hands, the Sondheim minor keys, the big themes and moralistic
bents; it can be too much for a girl who has a love affair with subtlety.
That said, “Wicked” is a bit different. Yes, jazz hands and minor keys, but
instead of romance being the central theme, as it often is in these
productions, this play instead focuses on a friendship between two women. The friendship, to be specific, between
the Wicked Witch of the West (Elphaba) and Glinda the Good. Elphaba, in this telling, is dark, heroic
and true. Glinda, while her heart
is good, just wants to be popular.
They are opposites but they form a bond early and deep. In high school, as a matter of fact.
There’s a scene at the end when the two women are taking
leave of each other for the last time.
Elphaba says, “You were my only friend.” Glinda, with a wail of anguish says, “I’ve had so many
friends.” Megan and I howled with
laughter because we both have had so many friends. But Glinda went on and said, “But you were the only one that
mattered.”
I have many, many friends that matter. I love easily and deeply and fervently,
in all categories – romantic, platonic and familial. There is no greater thrill for me than holding the key that
unlocks a heart and opening my own in return. But of all these loves, there are a few that go even
deeper. There are a few people
that have seen all sides of me; when I’m green with the stomach flu, when I’m
bloated with pregnancy, when I’m near catatonic with depression, when I’m
sparkling in my new dress from the Anthropologie sale room.
The lights came up after “Wicked” and the three of us moved
with the crowd towards the street.
I was still a bit lost in the story, contemplating my friendships,
particularly my bond with Megan, fighting back tears in the crush of humanity
that is Manhattan. Megan and Mae
were chatting and then fell silent.
Megan sighed, “Good friends.”
That’s all it took. I was
flapping my hand before my eyes, blinking furiously, trying to swallow the
sudden obstruction in my throat.
Good friends. I
am so lucky. To find these
friends, to find them in my daughters, even. I’ve got jazz hands just thinking about it.
