The Contract

Some days you wonder if you are alone in the world. 

Your past can seem like such a lost entity. 

The life you had before you met your spouse. 

The life you had before your children were born. 

The wild nights where guys and wine experimented with one another.

But then you remember someone. 

Some people. 

Your college friends. 

Ah, the ladies who knew me when...

My college friends and I had a reunion a few weeks ago in Chicago. 

Three funtastic days together. 

We hadn't been together without our children or spouses in tow in years. 

I don't even remember when we were all together last except for funerals in the past few years. 

Most of them live in the city and so they do see one another quite often. 

But, I'm in central Illinois. 

Another one lives in the northern burbs. 

And one of us lives in Omaha. 

It was due time for us to leave our babes at home with our husbands. 

It was due time for us all to converge at one home and let our hair down. 

Who am I kidding...we don't have hair to let down. 

We had many names in college and one was "The Short Hair Club."

We all still have relatively short hair. 

There are seven of us in all. 

Seven of us who met 25 years ago. 

Seven of us who have shared clothes, secrets, and a few boyfriends. 

Seven of us who have don't always get to talk much to one another, but that didn't seem to matter when we got back together. 

We were missing one member of our group, though. 

She got a pass as she lives in Ireland. 

Only two in our group grew up with sisters. 

This lack of childhood sisterly drama drew us closer, I think. 

An invisible contract was signed during college. 

A contract that said "through thick and thin we shall stand together. Always"

When one of us got upset with someone about, who knows what, a voice amongst the group would loudly declare "ah, but you signed the contract!"  

And you would resign yourself to this phantom truth. 

During our reunion we shared old stories. 

We giggled. 

We guffawed. 

We talked about sex. 

We talked about food. 

We peed in our pants a little. 

We all brought photos to share. 

College photos. 

Life after photos. 

Upon graduation, we all converged on the city of Chicago and some of us lived together. 

We were always with one another and even vacationed together. 

New Orleans, Miami, the crazy camping trip we took to Wisconsin. 

There was so much photographic evidence of the lives we had had.  

Our former thinner selves. 

Lives before children. 

Lives before careers. 

Lives lived with so much abandon. 

I wouldn't trade these ladies for anything. 

They know me. 

I know them. 

We still tell secrets to one another. 

We love one another dearly. 

They were all there 200% for me and my family when Zoe was diagnosed with leukemia. 

So, we went out to eat at fancy restaurants that were absent of children's menus. 

We drank giant martinis. 

We stayed up past 10:00. 

We had a blast. 

And I remembered that I wasn't alone. 

I'll never be alone. 

My past will always live on with these women. 

And I can't wait to make future memories with them all. 

Until we are drooly, gray, and pushing each other in wheelchairs. 

My friends. 

Forever. 

Do You Wanna?

Language. 

It's a phenomenal thing really.

Each part of the world and then smaller parts of that world have their own languages. 

And accents.

And sayings. 

And I'm starting to sound like a southerner. 

Well an Illinois southerner. 

A south of I-80-ian. 

My country drawl is getting worse the longer I'm in corn country. 

It's an easier way to talk really. 

I drop the "g" of most "ings" and keep throwing out "wanna?" when I ask my kids if they want to go get some yogurt with chocolately mix-ins. 

I used to talk like a Chicagoan. 

With full and round vowels.

And a hint of sarcasm following every other noun. 

I have kept up with some Northern Illinois ways of speech. 

I say sneakers. 

Not tennis shoes. 

I say soda. 

Not pop. 

I say grilled cheese. 

Not cheese toastie. 

I say White Sox. 

Not Cardinals.  

I grew up with a very middle of America twangy accent. 

Then I changed my location. 

And I enjoyed hearing how my voice adapted to my surroundings. 

To the city voice that was there just waiting to emerge. 

Like I had emerged. 

As a girl from small-town America who embraced her new city and home of Chicago. 

Now I'm back in the country. 

My city life is one from another time. 

When I kissed boys at Cub games. 

When I wore shorter skirts. 

When I ate more pad thai. 

But the country gal in me has emerged as a new one. 

With my own voice and convictions that I found when I was in the city. 

But with that old school twang from long ago. 

Now, you wanna go look for fireflies?

Or lightnin' bugs as they say in these parts?