Temporarily Off the Wagon

Or is it on the wagon?

Regardless the correct idiomatic expression, my position relative to the wagon was altered over the weekend. The influences blazing my wayward path - my cousin Tasha and her husband Andy. They followed through on their promise to visit, and the trip could not have come at a better time. My new roommate and I were moving the furniture into our apartment, which I conveniently forgot to mention during their planning process. Obviously, Andy's hardworking spirit would feel obligated to help, and obviously, I would stand at the base of the stairs and act as moral support. Hidden motives aside, I was abundantly grateful for their company.

Since we grew up ten minutes from one another and she is only a month and a day older than I, my relationship with Tasha has been akin to that of sisters, minus the bickering regarding who gets to shower first. We spent summer days frolicking about my grandma's backyard and summer nights talking into the wee hours of the morning, eating ice cream and watching movies. Whether it was balancing on stilts for 100 laps around my basement, playing dress up, or riding bikes through the neighborhood, being around Natasha was natural. Through middle school, we experienced many adolescent crushes, heartbreaks, and petty problems together. Although we both went to different schools and led separate lives, we never lost our childhood friendship.

The summer before our junior year of high school, I was experiencing boy issues yet again, and Natasha was telling me of her friend's brother, a cute incoming freshman. Of course I laughed at her prospective boy toy, but she defended him by saying he was old for his grade and "very mature." Plus, there is a negatively correlated "cuteness to age" dating scale. The cuter the prospect, the younger he can be.* Even during these initial butterfly stages of the courtship, I could see the qualities that drew Natasha to Andy - mainly, he played football.

Natasha was vindicated, and since they began dating seven years ago, the two have been inseparable. Selfishly, I am most grateful that despite their blossoming love, my relationship with Natasha never changed. Rather, Andy was able to immediately mold himself into a tight knit friendship without altering a single dynamic. He joined in our laughing, eating, bursting into spontaneous song, and occasionally, even dancing.

Throughout college, Natasha and I spent many nights chatting around Aunt Jill's counter top. During those conversations, in between bites of whatever goodies the Ziegler family had whipped together, we released every frustration, hope, doubt, or dream we had. Not once during these hormone driven vent sessions did Natasha's devotion to Andy waver. Further, in all my time spent with the two of them, I have only seen them grow closer.

Three years ago, we began the treasured tradition of sharing Valentine's Day dinner. Each year, our tricycle rolls to a different restaurant for a lovely evening. I tell them of my childish adventures like flashing children or losing my shoe in a cupboard, and they tell me of their increasingly adult life issues like mortgages and graduate programs. Honestly, the thought of bringing a fourth has never occurred to me, as our chemistry is too sacred to risk disruption. Due to my geographic location, I was unable to join them for Valentine's Day dinner this year. While I hate breaking tradition, I am glad I had them to myself this entire weekend.

In twenty two years, the only aspect of Natasha that has changed is her bossy behavior. As children, she insisted that the "guest picked"; now, I am quite sure she would have been married in jeans for lack of dress had I not been in the store with her. Our time spent together was no different than any other childhood memory, except that I had to choose every activity from where we should visit to when they should brush their teeth. We had a nice Mexican dinner during which I spilled salsa all over my jeans, laughed our way through a chick flick, satisfied our cravings for frozen yogurt (which is healthier than ice cream - being adults we must consider the consequences of such indulgences), complained about various people in our separate lives. I even introduced them to the greatness of Nutella and McDonald's French Vanilla cappuccinos. Driving in the car, belting country music, I was taken back to my senior year of high school, post Mike break-up #4. The three of us took a trip to Taco Bell and sat in the parking lot singing Carrie Underwood at the top of our lungs. Just as I had felt during an insignificant moment five years ago, the closeness I have with Natasha and Andy comforted me in the midst of life's uncertainty.

I began this entry referring to my hiatus from the three week alcohol hiatus. Yes, I did drink with them. In fact, I may have gotten a bit tipsy off the four shot glasses we imbibed at the Carter Mountain wine tasting (although I was definitely not impacted as severely as Natasha, whose innate aversion to beverages of any sort renders her tolerance quite pitiful). I feel no guilt regarding this hiatus; in the case of Tash and Andy, I can feel comfortable doing most anything.

They left on Sunday, and with them left a bit of that coveted comfort. Determined, as always, to confront said lack of comfort, I called weight room boy to give the situation another chance - I say situation because while I do not expect this to develop into a dating relationship, I must also remain open to friendships. We watched three quarters of the Bulls/Heat game, and perhaps it is unfair of me to judge in such a way, but the time was a bit disappointing after my weekend. Of course, he was against the staunch competition of summer volleyball, hours of laughter (whose initial roots could only be identified 30% of the time), years of dessert table gatherings, and a lifetime accumulation of memories. The poor guy never stood a chance.

*The granular results of this scientific study are pending.