January 27, The Birth of A Friend(ship)

18 is divisible by 3. It is also divisible by 6, and 9 and 2, and if you take 2 away from the sum of 9 and 6 you get 13. 13 is the number of years that I’ve known a girl named Heather. Heather was a tiny blonde with bangs cut at a perfect 90 degree angle to her ears. She wore dresses. I wore jeans that had to have the grass stains washed out of them repeatedly. Heather packed her lunch; I bought. We were definitely opposites. Even the way we approached playtime was different. Heather wanted to create elaborate romances between her Barbie and my Ken doll. I wanted to make them fly around the house.

We met in Mrs. Ditzlers’s afternoon kindergarten. On one of the first days of school, Heather needed someone to play with and my mom, standing nearby as “Room Helper” volunteered me. I’m told, though I can’t remember, that after being introduced we took hands and walked away to find something to play with. That must have been a glorious moment for Heather in our friendship. I’m not a big fan of physical contact. I have plenty of theories about why that is, but they’re only theories. Heather, on the other hand, loves to hug, to hang, to cuddle, to rub, stroke, pinch, grab, hold, talk about a hands on learner. I let her invade my personal space for a couple of years before drawing the line. How many friends do you know of that make rules about hugs?

When I think about my friendship with Heather, one of the first things I remember is sleeping over at her house. I loved sleepovers at the Shertzers. The night would start with chocolate. We’d make sundaes or mint chocolate milkshakes, or, on special occasions, we’d have Pelman’s triple chocolate cake washed down with tall glasses of milk. I remember that I liked the glasses at her house. They were actually glass, and they were tall like the glasses my parents drank out of. At my house, the kids drank out of plastic cups that had attachable sippy lids, and we kept them in a drawer by the fridge, not a cupboard next to the sink.

After snack, I’d borrow one of Heather’s bathing suits and we’d go sit in the hot tub until we turned to prunes. There was a specific procedure for getting in the hot tub. We’d get towels from the bathroom and go down to the basement, leave our towels at the door to the patio, run out into the cold, take the cover off the hot tub, and then wipe off our feet before entering the warm water. Once we were in, we’d talk about boys and gossip about the other girls in our grade, talk about God, and disagree about God. We’d admire our legs and confide that this year we really were going to buy bikinis.

There was always a special sleepover at the end of the school year where we would write in each other’s yearbooks recounting our embarrassing moments, remembering our inside jokes, and finally confessing our appreciation for each other. I stopped buying yearbooks when I entered the high school, when the price jumped a good fifty bucks. So for the four years that we’ve missed, I think it’s time again to recount embarrassing moments, remember inside jokes, and confess appreciation.

Heather, do you remember the picture that I put on the back of that poster I made you for your 17^th birthday? If there weren’t a photo of it, it really wouldn’t have been an embarrassing moment, rather normal for us actually, but that wasn’t the case. Remember sophomore year in the fall, screaming and crying and half laughing outside the bathrooms near the cafeteria? That should have been embarrassing, but we were so worked up we were completely oblivious to anyone that may have seen or heard us. Remember the night there was a tornado warning and we had to run to the basement only half way out of our dress up clothes? I was embarrassed, sitting on a chair in your basement in my underwear; you should have been embarrassed too, but not for the same reason, because of the fit you were making about the possible tornado. Remember prom, and how our dates were chucking mints at each other and catching them in their mouths and Mr. Pritcherd had to come over and tell them to knock it off? Why weren’t you embarrassed? Remember in AP art when I wore a dress with shorts underneath and I mooned you and Teddy? You were actually embarrassed that time.

Inside jokes, well… you know what has to come first, “You just gotta do it till it won’t do it no more.” Then there’s our classic, strawberry banana or strawberry kiwi. Big butts that keep us warm in the winter. Full moons, and bicycles, although, that could be an embarrassing moment. It seems like there should be a lot more. There probably are, but I’m kind of anxious to move on to the next part of this yearbook entry.

Heather, you’ve known me through all of my different phases, the Aeropostale phase, the tomboy phase, the athlete phase, the religious phase, the depressed and doesn’t want to have fun phase, the short hair phase, the jell pen phase, the Barbies and pumpkin muffins stage. You knew who I was and when I was trying to be someone I wasn’t and as fickle as I was, and still am, you stuck around. You called me out when I needed it and didn’t want it, when I needed it and wanted it, when I didn’t need it and didn’t want it. You took me shopping when I felt bad about my clothes. You taught me how to make chocolate peanut butter eggs, how to escape a flood, and change a tire. You may have made fun of my cooking, but you still ate it. You are a good friend Heather Shertzer, and I want you to know that I wouldn’t trade the time we’ve spent together for anything. You have been such a big part of my life, from childhood all the way to adulthood now.

The other thing about the numbers from the beginning is that if you add 18 to half it’s value, you get 27, and that’s today’s date, the birth date of Heather Noel Shertzer, loud laugher, chocolate lover, fashion goo-roo, natural blonde, and friend. Happy birthday Heath, and welcome to adulthood.