I know I'm always talking about this one girl on this blog by name, so I thought maybe she needed an About a Girl post. Although, since I've already referred to her by name directly a ton of times, I may as well post a picture and her name, right? Well, that's what I thought, but I'll refrain; I'll try to have self control.
I'm sure you'll recognize yourself right away, but I can only start by saying I'm so happy we've trailed each other through school and all through our working careers. Every job and job move has seemed easier and more fun, because of you.
No one understands better the feelings I have of what could have been, what should have been, why it wasn't, and why that's the absolute perfection I wanted.
I remember the first time I saw you...I think. It was either in a Blinn history class or Spanish...and good thing I was wearing that Beastie Boys t-shirt, or you may have never spoken to me...but I think it was Mr. C.'s history class. You and your then boyfriend, now husband, forever friend, were sitting back in the corner. And you had the curliest. hair. I had ever seen. up close. And so blonde! You had a blonde aura. And you were about as pale as me, so I felt an instant kinship.
"I bet she knows all about sunscreen, blistering, and turning red just from walking from one building to the next!"
Incidentally, this will be the first summer that I've had such dark window tint on my windows, so I'm hoping to avoid arm sunburn just from driving around doing errands on my lunch break. Here's hoping.... The freckles are absolutely running amuck around this joint.
So back to Girl. You're always seemingly quiet and sweet and smiling slightly...unless Mogen David or my sister is invited to the party, and then you can get quite silly. And oh the laughing. You've also got quite a little temper mixed in with all those blonde curls, so word to the wise: don't mess with this Girl. She means business.
I love how your baby has the same blonde curls. She is carrying on the legacy, even though yours are all wrangled under the flat iron.
I love how you, your family, and even your in-laws make me feel like one of the pack.
I also love how you feel the need to feed me every chance you get. And I eat it all voraciously, like the little garbage disposal I can be. The fact that we are both picky eaters in our own right makes this so much easier. I can only imagine if you tried to bring me something full of nuts or decorated with greenery. Gagging is not something anyone can carry off gracefully. Believe me...I've tried; I know.
Every year that passes, I feel like I get to know a little more about your likes, dislikes, quirks, and thoughts. You're always up on the latest fashions and like to look nice, but if you had your druthers, you'd probably cruise all over in those blasted basketball shorts. Deep down, you're just a little country girl who wants to take a nap...this is why I relate to you SO WELL.
You take comfort in the things surrounding you - books you read part of, books you plan to read, candy to share with everybody else, pictures of your family and friends, toys and keepsakes for your baby, your puppies, your new feline, that tote bag - and like to keep your comfort pieces close and unchanging. As I type, I'm realizing it also brings me comfort to know and see all the same things around and with you.
P.S. I hate change. Surprise!
I also love how we both connect over geekiness and somewhat mourn the loss of school and homework. Somewhat. You do all the number puzzles, I'll do all the words and letters, you come back and fix what I missed, and we'll rule the world.
Another perk is that you're always one step ahead. You got married first, you had your baby first, you're having your second baby first, and a whole slew of other things. It's nice to be able to watch, celebrate with you, and then have you walk me through everything when my turn comes along. I hope to be the same help to another friend that I may be one step ahead of...although I might have to befriend a teenager to accomplish this....
So much more I could say, but let's just leave it at: Please pass the ketchup.
Gloria Llamas Obregon