Girlfriends

By midday, Boulder was sweltering canned heat with no relief other than to check into Vic's Coffeehouse for an iced mocha, sipped slowly at a table directly beneath the swamp cooler fan while trying to keep the eyelids open as the brain shuts in a meltdown. I gulp iced sodas and an ocean of water and still, I'm exhausted just watching the heat waves blur the air above sidewalks and car hoods. It's after a full day of visiting long-time friends in town in 100 degree temps that the imagery of cold sake and excellent fish in air conditioned surrounds propels me to a more logical priority before heading up the dusty, winding curves through Fourmile Canyon where I'm staying with dear girlfriends of my Boulder past life.

"Wow, that's a lot of sushi!" exclaimed the rotund man taking up his space and spilling into mine at the bar in Sushi Tora in downtown Boulder.

"They're only half rolls," I defended as the artistic platter of a dozen pieces was handed over the counter with a smile and a bow. Savoring the memory of my favorite Boulder sushi restaurant in the old West Pearl neighborhood called for revisiting the best loved menu choices.... all of them. Flying fish egg, and half rolls of dragon, soft shell crab and the Orgasm, the latter always producing guffaws from clowns like the one sitting next to me.

"What? Only half an orgasm? You should really work on that!" he grinned a dimpled practiced smirk that might have been cute when he was far younger but looked grotesquely warped as he elbowed his 2 buddies, who were equally smarmy.

"Yeah... right… but I'm only faking it anyway," I politely snarled, turning in solitary culinary bliss to admire the delicately arranged rolls zigzagged in sauces and sitting atop heaps of Japanese veggie-garnish. Slowly luxuriating in the complex flavors, I maneuvered another piece into my mouth.

"Wow, you can really put it away! And you're small... I mean... you're not fat or anything but you can really eat that stuff," the uninvited neighbor bleats as his belly shakes in laughter with his own perceived cleverness.

"Oh look.... your check! " I smile, "Isn't the service here wonderful?" I shoot a thankful glance to the waitress, who knowingly smiles back, and think... that's what I get for going to dinner without my girlfriends.

The girls were back at the canyon cabin, dubbed Fort Girlie for the weekend, where the air was only slightly cooler but the mountain stream was refreshing as it tumbled past the front door. Girlfriends who would never insinuate that you were eating or drinking too much. In fact, they'd gladly sacrifice the calories and offer to dine with you just to keep your intake to half. In our world 25 years ago, we would jog around North Boulder Park and then reward ourselves with
ice cream.

"The calories cancel out if you both eat the same hot fudge sundae," my friend, Lynda, would proclaim. It's like clapping your hands if you believe in Tinkerbell and if you believe – like magic – it will be. It must have worked because we were always able to fit into size 2 jeans.

The ladies of the canyon had reassembled and were chatting about past and future boyfriends, cats, travels, tarot readings, planetary transits and the latest strategy for instant weight loss and lottery-sized financial gains set to the music of girlish howls and fine wine. Years of mutual admiration and camaraderie. Decades of fashion trends, club hopping and changes culminating in a weekend reunion of breakfast in pjs and dinners on the porch with long conversations deep into the night. Real girlfriends who would never chastise for frivolous spending, or dumping a date, or moving cross country for your soul, or buying a pair of jeans a size too small for incentive. No... these were seasoned women who, after 25 years together sometimes on opposite ends of the universe, had been through every imaginable disaster, joy, loss, rebirth and hairstyle – and emerged victorious, wizened and stronger. Through time, they had come to understand and encourage the dynamics and value of their individual quirks and flavor.

"You know, my Ruby the VW is not going to make it over to the front range," I had tried to explain to my friends when the gathering was announced.

"We'll understand if you can't make it, but you should try to come," Lynda and Robin both said. I had been looking for a companion car for Ruby – like getting a puppy for an older dog – to get me to the further reaches, the edge and beyond – the VW reality is that in her antiquity, she's really a western slope car. Ruby is a lot like the rest of my girlfriends, classic and still going strong, but selective. Serendipitously, another girlfriend in Crested Butte happened to be selling her Subaru and although it didn't have the personality of a 72 VW bug, it would do the trick.

"Wait... you bought a car just to come see me?" Lynda sounded amused
but not too surprised.
"Well, that's what girlfriends are for..." I reasoned.