Let's define "best friends" shall we?

Let’s define “best friends” shall we?

I couldn’t leave the story I started untold.

You know me.

I’m a sucker for cliff-hangers, but this is ridiculous.

If you don't tell us more, I'm going to jump...or walk...or fall...or something.

If you don’t tell us more, I’m going to jump…or walk…or fall…or something.

When last we left nine-year-old Lorna, she was forced to leave her best friend, Michele, behind because her mom moved the family back to northern New York. Would they ever see or hear from each other again?

This is suspenseful and all, but I'm really wondering why I don't have more worry lines on my forehead.

This is suspenseful and all, but I’m really wondering why I don’t have more worry lines on my forehead.

Since not much went on the lives of pre-teens (when I was a pre-teen at least), our letters were short and dismal unimaginative pathetic.

Dear Shell,

How are you?

I am fine.

Is it hot down there? It is hot up here, but we have a fan.

I miss you.

XXXXXOOOOO,

Lorna

Hers were kind of the same. We could’ve sent telegrams to each other.

Why do they even bother?

Why do they even bother?

Soon we stopped writing because, let’s face it, mowing the lawn was more fun.

But both of our mothers had more of a commitment to keeping our friendship alive than we did. Which is to say, our moms forced us to write weekly letters to each other. I hated doing it because I had letter-writer’s block. But Mom wouldn’t rest until I filled one side of a note pad page with something. I wrote in very large, loopy handwriting.

The Mother Letter Writing Gestapo worked.

Tell her about your pig-tails. I don't care. Just write something!

Tell her about your pig-tails. I don’t care. Just write something!

Soon we grew into teen-aged girls with something to write about: BOYS! Sometimes my envelopes needed two stamps. So did Michele’s.

My letters were more about my hopes and dreams of a love life; hers were more detail-oriented. Remember, she was tall and thin while I was still portly chubby substantial. Heck, I got stuck in a dress I was trying on in a dressing room.

Our mothers surprised us with springing for yearly visits. One year, I would visit Michele for a week; the next year, she would visit me. We only did this when we were old enough to ride the bus–fourteen, I think. Missing children hadn’t been invented yet, so we were safe.

The only thing we had in common was our playground deal, the years that had passed, and boy-talk. In every other way, Michele and I were opposites. She was the gazelle and I was the orangutan.

Until I turned fifteen and I lost weight. Whatever weight I kept shifted up in the two exact right places. All of a sudden I was a blonde bombshell. My letters contained many more details after that.

Yeah! I totally know how you feel.

Yeah! I totally know how you feel. Oh those aren’t your hands. My bad…I still know how you feel.

After we graduated from high school and went to college, and were no longer under our mothers letter-writing influence, Michele and I drifted apart.

We both had steady boyfriends who we “knew” would marry us. Our focus was on them, not on fantasies any more.

Phones still had those darned long-distance charges, so we managed holiday cards, but that was it.

Hey, I have to get paid minimum wage. How else do you think I can afford this fashionable hair do and fancy clothing?

Hey, don’t begrudge your outlandish phone bills. I have to get paid minimum wage. How else do you think I can afford this fashionable hair do and fancy clothing?

My steady boyfriend wobbled after six years. He dumped me. I was devastated and turned to my best friend–Michele.

I called (at great expense to my tight budget) and asked her to come to visit me, even if just for a weekend.

She said she was busy making plans for her wedding (ouch), but would come.

The weekend we spent together didn’t go as I envisioned.

I wanted to stay in my apartment and cry on her bony shoulder.

She wanted to have one last fling before she got married.

Being a girl who always wanted to please others, I went out to a bar with her.

While she was performing her mating dance, I sat alone at the table and drank.

She ended up picking up some guy who spent the night with her. At my place.

I listened to them having sex. I didn’t sleep well.

She had to leave the next day, which made me kind of happy.

When I took her to the bus station, she said she had a great time. She hugged me goodbye.

As I watched the bus leave, I decided our friendship was over. And she didn’t even know it.

I cried that weekend. But it was on my Old English sheepdog’s very hairy, but soft, shoulder.

He looks like a better best friend, doesn't he?

That’s me back then. Humphrey looks like a better best friend, doesn’t he?

Is this really the end of a decades-old friendship? Can the betrayed and humiliated Lorna ever find it in her heart to forgive this horny woman? Stay tuned…One more post and this story ends!