As we pulled into the parking lot chomping on one more bite of my roll-up from El Pollo Loco, I grabbed my heels from the back seat and attempted to cram my swollen feet into them.
Oh, this was going to be comfortable.
Dumping most of my weight onto my poor hubby, we walked ever so carefully up to where everyone was waiting….and I was home.
At a beautiful wedding site I’d never been to, in shoes I couldn’t walk in, with makeup put on hours before that was barely clinging to where I’d put it, I knew how lucky I was.Lucky to be surrounded by these people. Lucky to get more hugs and kisses than I could possibly deserve. Lucky to get the same joking insults slung at me that we’ve been slinging for 20 years. Lucky to know that my flip flops in my purse were going on moments after the “I do’s”, and no one here would think twice about it.
For 25 years I’ve been lucky enough to call this bunch of goobers more than my friends, but my family. We had the unique experience of getting to grow up together on the same street, go to the same schools, carpool, cheer each other on, fight, and all the dysfunctional awesomeness that we could come up with.
Sometimes it’s months between when we are all together, sometimes years, but it never matters. We pick right back up like we’re still kids running around playing tag in the cul-de-sac.
Goober with the garter on his head at my wedding…. one of the first people I remember seeing after waking up from a very drug induced nap after LJ was born.
Maid of honor, oldest friend, can’t imagine my life without her.
Uncle RoRo, thanks for getting married, you gave us a reason to be inappropriate and awesome, as usual.
Maybe it’s being a mom. Maybe it’s just time. Maybe it’s all these killer hormones, but it’s been almost 23 years since this picture was taken, and I love these guys more now than ever. Though some of us are rarely home, home is wherever we are.
For that, I’m blessed.