Today Kjersti and I met for lunch. I had planned for 1:00, thinking that would give me time to get back from the Hamptons (where I spent my spring break, obviously), maybe get a run, shower, and head into the city. Wishful, wishful thinking. Instead, I came home, finished my book, cleaned half my bathroom, and laid on the couch for 20 minutes.
I pulled the sweatshirt and puffy vest I'd worn yesterday back on, conceded to vanity by re-doing my ponytail, and headed out the door. I've spoken before about how I love old friends, friends with whom there is a story and a history, and it's not just because I don't feel like I have to shower when I meet up with them (though, that is part of it). It's that I feel comfortable. Like I can just pick up right where we left off. Where I don't have to explain or justify and neither does she. We haven't seen each other in years, but, as we eat rice pudding in late afternoon sunshine, those years in between don't really matter. Because, despite the more adult angles of our faces, and the more grown-up contents of our purses, we still are who we are, and we each remember who that is.
Rice pudding is also nice.