Generally, I’m a fairly easy-going person. My life has taught me it’s best to expect less of the people I love than to set my ideals so high that they cannot be met.

I know that kind of thinking is perhaps a degree or two off the mark from the uber-positive thinking of say, someone like Deepak Chopra, who’s mantra is “expect the highest.”

But I’ve found that “expecting the highest” doesn’t always pan out.

My realism is the by-product of the trial and error which is called “life.”

And part of the trial that led me to the eventual error came from my tendency to romanticize my friendships, particularly the esteemed position of what we call “the best friend.”

I’ve never needed anything more in this life than a best friend.

And while I’ve always been fortunate enough to have many great friends, the slot that holds the best friend is like a golden chair that only “she” can sit in.

And she does exist  and has existed — as my best friend for 40 years. Yes, I’ve had a best friend, my only best friend, Morticia, for 40 years.

An odd thing happens with this best friend of mine; we go through years of not speaking to each other.

While the love is always there, we also get into massive fights where all we can feel for each other is this blinding, scalding hate. Yes, hate.



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