The Seven Year Rule
I can still imagine sunny days at recess, jumping rope in plaid rolled-up skirts and forest green polos. Our playground consisted of a parking lot, and I can still see the heat rising off the black asphalt with increasing speed. There are whispers in the group of girls I am standing with, and when I turn to my friend to confirm she is actually going to kiss her two-week boyfriend in front of everyone, I am too late. Instead, I see her two braids swinging as she marches up to him, pecks him on the lips, and darts away as the class erupts into screams and giggles. Yes, this saga was the most fun recess had been in forever. And yes, she did break up with him the next day.
There are seven girls who can recall this memory at the drop of a pin, seven girls who I was blessed to call my friends when I had purple Barbie glasses, and when our class suffered through sexual education with incompetent Catholic school teachers. That dramatic day at recess was six years ago. I do not attend school with any of them today, and it has been years since I have had munched on a snack while struggling through long division problems after school with my “Giles friends.” Yet, they are easily some of my best friends. They know me better than I know myself, and their homes and families are the places and the people I feel most comfortable with.
Being a five minute drive from each other’s houses has morphed into late night phone calls, and snap streaks where it is difficult to know where to even began the story. Yet, I still feel myself filing away stories and memories to tell them, to remind myself to fill them in on friend drama and weekend stories. After all, sharing the ups and downs are what truly make a friendship strong, resilient, and exciting.
Someone once told me if you are friends with someone for seven years, then you are locked into that friendship for life. Locked, sounding deliberate and harsh, actually brings comfort to my mind. Fourth grade dioramas and high school graduation parties? We have it all.