Besties
I haven’t been very active on the internet lately. Not here, not on Fet. Seems like once I’ve been away from Fet for a little while, I have trouble getting back into the swing of it. The place moves too fast. Threads are done, posts are old, conversations are finished often times within hours. If you miss it, you’re out of the loop!
Sometimes the (perceived) intimacy of internet forums makes me back away, too. People who have been reading here for awhile know me a whole lot better than I know them, and it can seem like they already think of me as their friend when I’ve only just “met” them- literally.
It’s not that I don’t want people to be my friend, or to be friendly, and it’s not that I have any problem with people reaching out… I mean, I’m not entirely a cold fish. But I am kind of… stand-off-ish, I guess.
The other day, Am was talking to me about her friend, Lee; she was complaining about this thing Lee does that drives her crazy, and my response was along the lines of why not just dump her then. To which Am replied that Lee was one of her besties and how I would understand that if I actually had a bestie.
I have friends; both online and face to face. But, leaving M out of the mix, I don’t have a bestie. I don’t have any one person (or people) who I’ll call when I have news to share, or to vent with, cry with, laugh with. I have people who have appeared to want that job, both online and face to face, but I keep them at arm’s length. And if things feel like they are getting too close, too intimate, I all but ignore them until some of that intimacy has dropped back a notch or seven.
I don’t always like this about myself. I think it probably comes across as bitchy. Or snobby. Or something even worse. Thing is, I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I had a bestie.
Her name was Dawn, and we met when we were in the 4th or 5th grade. We both got glasses that year and endured the soul-searing insult of “Four eyes!” together. Our friendship was sealed.
We were pretty inseparable, through the rest of elementary school, through the 3-P’s of junior high (puberty, pimples, and periods). Together we suffered through the horror of being a high schooler who wasn’t a jock or cheerleader. We shared boyfriend woes, and went on double dates. We shared homework, clothes, houses. We smoked our first cigarette, and later, our first joint together.
I was there when she got married. She was there when I did. I was there when she had her son. She was there when I had my daughter, and then my other daughter. Our babies shared teething cookies and playpens.
I was there when she began to suspect her husband was having an affair. I went with her on ‘stake outs’ and evidence-finding missions, and she cried on my shoulder, sitting in my car in the dark, parked on the side of the street, when we eventually tailed him to the other woman’s house.
I supported her through the divorce and the beginning of a bitter custody battle. I couldn’t help stop her own descent into drinking… a descent that eventually cost her that custody battle. And then, for a time, I joined in with the drinking and we all sank.
It was during a period of enforced sobriety (aka: I was pregnant with B-man), and perhaps I was feeling left out and lonely as the rest of them continued to party without me, maybe it was bitterness that had me nagging at my by-then ex-husband one day, saying something to the effect of “My BFF is more of a second parent to our kids than you are!” Until I pissed him off enough that he dared me to challenge her on what kind of bestie fucks her BFF’s husband and then lies about it for years.
To her (small) credit, she didn’t deny it.
I remember that moment as clearly as if it were yesterday: Sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, feeling like I’d been sucker punched in the gut, as she admitted that, yes, she had fucked him while we were still married. Oh, you can probably guess the story: She was drunk, it meant nothing, yadda yadda yadda.
It wasn’t the sex that bothered me so much anyway. It was the countless hours I’d spent talking to her about my marriage, about my suspicions, about my concerns that I couldn’t trust him. The opportunities she had to tell me that he was a liar and a cheat and to stop wasting time on him because she KNEW. She knew that he was sleeping around, and not just with her, but with her *sister* (her SISTER! To add insult to injury, he slept with Sis while I was in the hospital birthing Am), among countless other bar sluts. She knew about all of them. She knew the whole time. And yet she let me-no, encouraged me to believe his denials and hang on to the sham of a marriage, the sham of our family and our life.
It was quite the blow. Anyone who has gone from ‘suspicion’ to ‘confirmation’ can tell you what a painful difference that is. And to make matters worse, the one and only person in the entire world that I would have gone to to share the pain of learning that truth? My bestie?
What kind of bestie does a person like that?
And so. We were never friends again. Just like that.
These days, people thinking I’m a bitch or a snob is less risky, less painful.
(*M falls into a whole different category. He definitely fills the slot of bestie, without actually being a BFF. It’s a much more…formal?…arrangement.)













