After poking around in our brains for a couple of minutes, Amy, Deborah and I determined that we all met either the Spring or Fall of 1995. We’ve been framily for roughly twenty seven years, but the last time we were all in the same room was probably nine years ago at Amy’s wedding. We have stayed in contact through random texts and social media, which is fine, but not the same as being together in a shared space. And with everyone’s crazy pants schedules, carving out a window of time to be together in a shared space is difficult. So last Fall I floated the idea of the three of us meeting at an Airbnb for a weekend. Surprisingly, that idea did not float away. In fact, it settled and landed and we made the idea a priority.

It’s real stupid that it took so long for us to do so.

We talked. We laughed. We cried. We laughed some more. We ate spicy pretzels and too much cheese. We drank more than what we were used to drinking. We slept as if we were still living in our old dormitory, me in one room and the two of them in the twin beds in the room across the hall. We slept with our doors open and brushed our teeth together, sharing the bathroom sink. We played Uno while wearing those creepy face masks and we talked and talked and laughed and laughed. After getting caught up with each other’s life events from the past nine years, we reminisced about our time at USAO which brought more laughter and a few tears. We all agreed that we left USAO with some holes in our education. I mean, I started a graduate program in microbiology and molecular genetics without ever having taken a molecular biology class. At the same time we all agreed that we left USAO with the very best education from a curriculum that taught us to think creatively and most importantly the very best friends.

Amy is now the director of the Duncan Public Library and is working on her Masters in Library Sciences all while caring for and teaching her own child. Deborah is going through a really messy awful life event that every time I think about it makes me want to cause physical harm to the idiot making the mess. She’s dealing with this mess and the impact this mess is making on her and her children and it’s hard, but she’s doing it. She’s dealing. Our lives are all so different from each other, yet we are still the same people to each other. Once, a group of HS friends pushed me into what was meant to be a girls’ night/reunion. I told Chris that there would not be spouses present, but when I arrived to the restaurant, I was the only one without a spouse. The evening was weird and awkward and I felt out of place. These women had started families, had babies. Meanwhile, I was still in school, working towards a career, no inkling of an idea of having a baby or babies. Our paths had just diverged so greatly, that after that evening, I never saw those women again unless it was on social media. I also refrained from ever using the phrase ‘girls’ trip’ or ‘girls’ night’ ever again.

Amy, Deborah and I may have travelled off into different direction, but we did so with all of us attached to a bungee cord. When someone’s cord gets too tight, too strained to hold, we all bounce back together into one spot. This weekend was all about a break from the strain of tugging on cords for far too long and we all agreed that we needed this way more often than every nine or ten years. I am leaning into the phrase ‘girls’ trip’ with open arms and plans to make this a yearly event. Correction. I have plans of making this yearly event a priority. I didn’t take enough pictures of our weekend together and I am greedy. I want more. More laughter. More comfort. More love. More time.

We are deserving of more.