This is my best friend, Megan. You should all feel sorry for yourselves that she’s my best friend, and not yours.
Megan became my best friend when I still looked like this:
So I know our friendship is legit, even though when she first moved to Aurora in the seventh grade, I was deeply entrenched in my World’s Worst Personality phase, which involved slapping people on the forehead when they said something I perceived to be stupid (i.e., everything) and generally being insufferable. Thankfully, she gave me a second chance, because I don’t know where I’d be without Megan today.
While I was off getting my college degree in Writing Funny Stories About Marching Band, Megan was majoring in physics and generally being badass. She figured out fashion before I did, got a boyfriend before I did, got a kickass job and married and had kids before I did. She was—and is—my role model, someone I look up to every day.
She is also my sounding board, my etiquette advisor, my professional coach and my secret keeper. Even though she lives eight hours away in Virginia, I feel like she’s always with me—for my greatest triumphs and my most ignominious defeats (both of which usually involve my children, surprisingly enough). We have helped each other dress for our weddings and we’ve used the jets of a Jacuzzi tub to wash vomit off a car seat. We’ve been to inaugurations with our husbands and prom with each other.
If I could fold up West Virginia and drag our houses right next door to each other, I would. Or I would build a teleporter, so Megan could materialize whenever I need someone to drive around aimlessly with, singing our own special parts to old Hootie and the Blowfish songs and wondering what we’re going to be when we finally grow up.
I hope everyone is lucky enough to have a best friend as cool as Megan. But who is not actually Megan. Because Megan is mine. Get your own*.
*Except Angela and Wittnie, I’m happy to share with you guys.