A friend, some years ago, said, that everything was more fun with me there. We once drove south from Los Angeles on the 5 freeway trying to get to Las Vegas. In south Orange County, we realized south was not getting us east and we were a long way from the glitter, lights and fast times of Las Vegas.
She claims, that, was fun.
I've always been fairly certain she was lying. That adding two hours on to a Vegas trip in rush hour traffic isn't fun. And everything wasn't more fun, simply because I was there. She's my friend, and friends have to lie to you sometimes. They have to tell you the truth when you're dating someone who's no good and you're too week and too in love to know the difference. They have to pick nicknames for you that you had no say in, and aren't going to like.
And they tell you things are more fun because you're there. She claims she wasn't lying. And I claim to not care. Because I'll chose to believe it anyhow.
Friendship is funny like that.
Friends of mine have married and moved to places which inspire a slowness about life, they say. I'm not there. I need the music blaring, and the dodger game in the sixth inning while my cats chase a spider up the living room wall. I need to be instant messaging and updating my facebook while chatting with my mom. I need eight plans a day. And I need my music loud. And I need to be driving fast. Very fast.
Outside the little town of Lamont, I was stopped some months ago, and cited with my first ever speeding ticket. When the officer asked why I seemed to accept it so calmly, "it was about time" was what my mind spoke, while he saw only a smile. I drive too fast. And I'm usually in a rush. I stop to smell jasmine flowers, and lay in bushels of tall golden weeds, but only when it's on the way to something else.
One week ago, in kickboxing class, the fastest moving, hardest grooving class I take, I stoped. I wasn't thirsty, and I wasn't sore. I had plenty of room, and I knew the choreography by heart. My instructor looked my way, but I felt as no explanation was necessary. I had to stop. I had to stop to cry. Probably the most inappropriate of times to stop and do so, but I never was qualified to explain my behavior as rational. I was tired of moving forward. And I was exhausted. Exhausted of 11 things not necessary to describe on this blog in order to make the point. I've driven so fast all of my life, through Lamont County and Anywhere County and you don't always have an officer there to cite you and tell you to slow the f down.
But we all do slow down. Whether by an officer of the law, the pain that takes a toll over our old age bodies, a love that makes time stand still, and quite finitely, in our final resting place.
When I joined the sorority I did so knowing I wouldn't be able to contribute like I ought to. I was too otherwise committed. I was overcommitted. To school and work and much else. But I did the best I could. Not being at most parties, and functions, even getting "talked to" at one point about my not being present for something. I am not a fan of that conversation, but I maintain I did the best I could, knowing that for me, joining a sorority was a lifelong decision. One I'd have more time for at chapters of my life, and less at others. That when I could, I'd be the very best sister, and friend, I could.
After a very long bout, a good friends father lost his battle with cancer two weeks ago. I recall that sadness I had for her, as one of those moments that demanded slowness, a halting of all life around you. What can you say, what can you do when all is said and done. When alls thats left is the missing. I couldn't do much. A call. A text. A thought. A prayer. A drive to the funeral, to lower my head, in solitude with her, as to say I joined this sorority not for the parties and good times, but to stand by your side for all of the times.
I haven't ever understood what it is in me that romanticizes tall stalks of golden strawlike weeds. What in me makes me want to stop and roll around in them. But as I stood there at that funeral, head held low, with those golden plants to the right and left, right and left, pushed by just the faintest of wind, as taps played on a single trumpet and marines fired rifles to honor the passing of one of their own, it would be difficult to picture anything more beautiful. That when life slows, we'd have our sisters at our side. We'd have earthy splendor. And those around us honoring the contribution of our life.
I was glad I could have made the trip there. But for me the irony came as I drove down the boulevard and the Lamont signs appeared. It seems as though when slowness of life is required, there I am, back at Lamont. It's a unremarkable place if you ask me. But my past several interactions there have made it a place of meaning. It's a place that forces me to slow down. It's a place that ultimately recalls to me the foundation of my responsibilities to my friends, and my sisters. That while friendship is this funny thing, of nicknames and ill fated roadtrips, good times and tough love, it's ultimately being there, slowing down, among tall stalks of golden plants, lowering your head in solitude, and doing nothing at all.
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