Blue Jeans, Best Friends, and like, Epic Adventures

When I was in 14 years old I met my best friend, Angie. At the beginning of 8th grade, I would see her almost every morning, waiting at the end of her street for the bus. One morning around the time that summer weather was giving way to chilly fall, I decided to wear jeans. Was it too early to wear jeans? Should I wait another two weeks? What if everyone was wearing shorts and I was the only person wearing jeans?! The world would END! (I can't believe these were my problems back then.) I passed Angie on the way to school, standing at the bus stop....wearing jeans. Relief! I was not the only one. I waved to her. She waved back. When I got to school that day, I found myself sitting near her and I told her how relieved I was that she wore jeans. She told me she felt the exact same way when she saw *I* was wearing jeans. It's hard to believe that a 14 year old friendship can be based on wardrobe selection.

When you're a 13-14-15 year old girl finding a best friend probably means more than finding a boyfriend. Girls are mean. They can be vicious and nasty and ruthless. I had been slowly beaten down by a girl that proclaimed herself my best friend. Angie had been best friends with a troublemaker who she was not even allowed to see or talk to anymore. We bonded over blue jeans and 2 boys we had in common. After all the drama we'd been through with other girls, finding each other seemed so simple and easy. We don't have drama, and I don't think we ever really have. At least, not with each other.

Miss Angie-kins is still my best friend, and soon I will have known her for longer than half of my life. When I am sad, scared, confused, happy, excited, or bored.... I call Angie to tell her about it. There is nothing she has not helped me through. She laughs at my inappropriate humor (even in public when she REALLY shouldn't). We watch really *lame* television together. Once a week I go to her house and I do my laundry. She cooks me dinner. She plays with my hair. She pets me. She paints my toenails. She lets me lay in her lap and cry if I wanna. She goes to WalMart with me when I don't want to go by myself. She just recently helped me (and when I say help, I mean she did all the work) clean my house.

When I'm scared I won't make it alone, she reminds me that I am not alone. When I call her crying because someone broke my heart, she wants to beat them up for me. (oh, and she would, so watch out) When reality hits me and I'm afraid that I'm a bitch, or manipulative, or just plain awful, she assures me that I'm not any of those things. And if I WAS being a bitch, or manipulative, or just plain awful? She'd tell me. Then she would hug me. But she'd still tell me and that's why I love her so.

Angie has been there through it all. She knows me on a level that no one else does, or could ever know me. I am not afraid to be myself around her. I don't hold back. I relax. I don't worry about being funny or smart or clever. Angie thinks everything I do is great, anyway. And really.. how embarrassed can you be in front of someone that you were with when you were stumbling across their lawn, drunk off your 15-year-old ass, screaming about geese and Boston baked beans? (yeah. I don't know why, either)

So for the next few days my blog is dedicated to telling stories that involve my best friend. My soulmate. My fellow schemer, commiserater, partner-in-crime, and sister-friend... Angie.