I’ve always felt more comfortable with men.
I’m not sure why.
But when I was younger and started at a new high school, it was a fellow newbie named Matt who I gravitated towards.
As soon as we discovered we had the same birthday, that was it. Matt and I went through it all. I’d set him up with girls, he’d set me up with boys. We’d sneak out for ciggie breaks and we’d go out for underage beers. We were inseparable.
And guess what? We never so much as held hands. Ever. It was a pure solid friendship between a boy and a girl. But this isn’t a story about my friendship with a guy.
This is a story about my relationship with his wife.
I’ve always admired Heather for her total acceptance of our friendship. Never once has she shown anything but respect and grace towards it. Who was this super secure woman that I longed to be?
One time when forcing Matt and I to go out for dinner alone, I remember thinking, enough is enough. No way is this appropriate. But like most men oblivious to the boiling bubble of rage that women hide deep within their loins, Matt was as chilled as gazpacho soup.
What the hell was going on? Why is everyone so god damn cool about this? I started to think maybe she and Matt were trying to sabotage their relationship.
Then it hit me. Maybe I’m the one with the problem. And I’m the saboteur because I’m so obsessed with making Heather feel included that I’m making myself look guilty.
When she asked me to be godmother to their son, I was shocked to the core. It was finally the pure acceptance I’d needed for so long. I raced to be at the christening and stood up there with both of them feeling so trusted, accepted and loved.