My husband and I had a little gathering today, and I introduced one guy, my roommate when I was in my 20s, as one of my oldest friends. “I’ve known him for around 20 years,” I said. And then I thought about it: I am so old now that someone I’ve known for literally 20 years is not one of my oldest friends. I have friends that I’ve known for 30 years, even one for 37 years! You have to be goddamn old to have friends that you’ve had for 37 years.
Granted, I’ve lived within the same 5-mile radius, except for college, practically my entire life. I have friends with whom I made mudpies, had sleepovers, saw Shaun Cassidy live at the Nassau Coliseum, rationalized poor choices in partners and then eventually grew up to meet for dinner at swank, overpriced restaurants that are in the neighborhoods our moms would not allow us to visit back when they were dangerous.
Still, it was just one of those Formerly moments–Formerly Young, not Formerly Hot–that gave me pause. But, you know, whatever. Younger people don’t get to have friends they’ve known for decades, friends who can remind them how far they’ve come from the days of making poor choices in partners and seeing Shaun Cassidy at the Nassau Coliseum. Longer in the tooth though I am these days, I got the long end of the stick this time.
Photo: A bunch of us in the early ’90s