Relationships
My Friends Know the Real Me and Still Love Me
They know where the bodies are buried, no one else ever will
“We may share experiences, make jokes and paint pictures, and describe humiliations that mean nothing to men but women understand.” Gloria Steinem
A Plethora of Friends
I consider myself to be an incredibly lucky woman where friendship is concerned. I have five close female friends I met during the different phases of my life. There are women I grew up with within the projects (hood rat) to a c-suite executive (CEO) I met when I was a six-figure VP. My friends are diverse and don’t match any standard to be friends with me. They do not all know each other. I have mingled with one or two of them together, a time or two.
All of us are strong, stubborn, intelligent, ambitious women who can take it as good as we give it. We can be sarcastic as hell. All of us are successful by society’s standards. Four of us have divorced at least once; one of us has never married. One person has married three times… so far. We also have diverse occupations; a full-time wife, a corporate executive, a writer, a gold digger (oh yea, she is), and a pilot. All of us are mothers.
No Expectations
My friends from different eras don’t know each other. When I am with these women, we are our authentic selves. We are not mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, or lovers. We are unconditional friends. There are no expectations of behavior. No facades are allowed when I am with those are care about me for me. Our love and caring for each other is unspoken.
Our generation wanted it all. We were told we could have it all. ‘Bring home the bacon and cook it up in the pan,’ duh no. We could not. All of us had heartbreak. Each of us wanted a love that no mere mortal man could meet. All of us were the products of the wild ’70s and the romantic ’80s.
Once, one friend was so broken that I went to her house to clean, wash dishes, take care of her and her children. Her mom called me to come to Chicago from California without my friend’s knowledge. She did not want to let me in, but after a few tries, I reminded her of the time I pooed myself at high school, and she helped me escape with no one seeing us. We both got into serious trouble for skipping school, but she told no one why we left. “Come on, that alone is worth me seeing you looking like a homeless person,” I said.
She had not taken a shower in who knew how long. The dishes were in the sink, and the kids were eating cold two-day-old pizza off paper plates. The kids were happy: watching television. She was drinking warm margaritas. I came in, made a fresh frozen batch of margaritas, and sat down with her. We drank until she was ready to talk, then we took it from there. By the time I left, all was not well, but it was much better.
In The Pickle Jar
When I was in college, I got myself into a pickle. Totally through my inaction, I did not have a dorm room or money or a place to stay, but my best friend had a dorm room. We had an elaborate scheme where I ate lunch, and she ate breakfast and dinner on her menu pass. I slept at her place until I recovered enough to function. We took turns flirting with the building monitor until we got over the hump. Distracted men don’t ask too many questions about how many girls are in a room.
These women have seen me at my lowest, and they still love me. They know my mistakes in love and life and still support me. We are friends to the end.
Toni Crowe retired as the Vice President of Operations to pursue her dream of being a writer. Toni has written six books, two of which won the 2019 Reader’s Choice Gold Awards. Her bestselling business book, “Bullets and Bosses Don’t Have Friends: How Do You Manage A Man Sitting With His Dick in His Hand?” was one of the winners. Her first book, “Never a $7 Whore” was the other.
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