One of my dearest friends on this planet Earth got engaged this weekend (Note: “got” engaged sounds fine to say out loud, but looks wretched in print. “Became” engaged sounds pretentious, though, like when people say “utilize” instead of “use”. Just know that I am, at present, in a grammatical conundrum and I really don’t know what I should do about it. Likely to do nothing at all).
Her brilliant fiance pulled off perhaps the most epic of proposal surprises, inviting sixty friends and family members to a “surprise birthday party” in her honor, and surprising everyone when they found out they were actually at an engagement party. Needless to say, it was a really beautiful evening, filled to the brim with happy feelings and good, good things (like, this to-die-for buffalo chicken dip that I ate approximately six pounds of).
At one point during the celebration, I was engaged in conversation with a really lovely group of women, which is, in itself, something to note: The sexes still segregate at these things, giving life a nice, seventh grade feel. The difference is that, now, we segregate to avoid each other because we spend too much time with the opposite sex, as opposed to too little. Spending every free moment with a dude (though you may love said dude immensely and boundlessly), really leaves a girl needing a little vapid chatter about nail polish.
So, here I am, standing with this group of women, most of whom I have known since college. In fact, I have probably stood in this same group many times over the years, discussing things I can’t even say out loud now. And as I am mulling over those conversations, I am suddenly all-too-aware of this one.
Sewing machines? I start to panic.
Wait, I’m sweating. Is that what we’re talking about? Sewing Machines?
My thoughts are racing. What can I contribute, here? I almost never overcook my Ramen, I could throw that in somewhere. But I’m snapped back to the reality of my ignorance.
Oh, my God, I think. What in the HELL is a bobbin?
“Time out,” I finally say to the group. “Can we just take a moment of silence for what we would have been talking about five years ago?”
The walk-of-shame talk, the “how many drinks did you have?” talk, the sorority talk, the “what do you think he meant by that?” talk, the VAPID NAIL POLISH CHATTER is suddenly a thing of the not-so-distant past.
Suddenly, we are in our mid-to-late 20.s. Suddenly, most of us are married (NOT ME THOUGH THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE LOL), and some of us are even somebody’s mother, which is fucking horrifying. And not that we don’t still engage in vapid chatter because, of course, we do; no less than fifty times did I touch my friend’s flat tummy and try to wish a fetus into it (That’s how it works, right?). But, apparently, just as I was getting good at nail polish chatter, we have a shiny new set of vapidities (I just made that word up, and I’m keeping it) to discuss, like baby blanket fabric.
It’s not for better, and it’s not for worse. It just is. But, still, I think the vapidities of yesteryear deserve a moment of silence. So, while you’re on your way to Crate & Barrel to get that new crock pot your friends have been raving about, take a moment to bid a fond adieu to the girls we used to be.