Thank you for being a friend

If I’m being honest, I’m not okay. We’re at nearly a year since this thing started, and though the end is in sight, it’s unclear when exactly that might be. I miss my friends. I miss my friends so much. Sure, we’ve had video chats. We have the group texts. We’re staying as connected as we can, even without being in the same room. But it is fucking hard. And it is not the same. My very best friends, my girls, have been my lifeblood, in some way or another, for as long I have a memory. We haven’t been all in the same room together since 2015. And, even though we live in different places, and have for some time, and might not even have seen each other in person anyway absent the pandemic, we could have. The past year apart (from them and nearly everyone else) feels so very hard. So very lonely. So very inhumane.

And so it has come to pass that I have adopted a network of surrogates. Blanche, Dorothy, Rose, and Sophia. Will, Grace, Jack, and Karen. Khadijah, Regine, Max, and Synclaire. Grace and Frankie. Eleanor, Chidi, Tahani, Jason, and Michael. Julia, Mary Jo, Charlene, Suzanne, and Anthony. David, Alexis, Stevie, Patrick, Moira, and Johnny. 


I have escaped into the imaginary worlds of friends who are always together. Who live in houses where doors are always unlocked, cheesecake is always in the fridge, and nobody ever goes through a problem alone. Where, when you wake up late at night and feel like shit, there’s someone there to cuddle under the comforter with, or get in a fight with, or drink a glass of wine with, or eat a cheesecake with. Where there’s always an adventure to be had, from road trips to mundane workdays to bad double dates to eating cheesecake. Theirs is a world where even funerals are funny. (Have I mentioned the cheesecake?) 


Having these other homes to go to, from a Brooklyn brownstone to a lanai in Miami to a stately Atlanta mansion to a couple of shabby adjoining hotel rooms to a beach house in La Jolla, has brought me comfort when it felt like there was no comfort to be found. Losing myself in episodes of these shows, with my imaginary friends, on days when it felt like we’d always be isolated and never laugh together again, has felt like the hug we couldn’t actually share. Like the happy hour we couldn’t enjoy. Like examining the Trolley Problem on a perfectly sunny day. Like problem solving at Del Taco. Like a cheesecake at midnight. 

Retreating into these places with these people is an easy way to cope with what is truly un-cope-able. After a hard day at work or on a day when I’m feeling particularly lonely, I can put on the TV and visit my sitcom friends and escape into worlds where things are normal, friends can gather, and Debbie Reynolds, Chaka Khan, Della Reese, Gregory Hines, Burt Reynolds, Maya Rudolph, and Lisa Kudrow show up for a visit and hilarity ensues. I can escape into a world without COVID-19, and laugh at things like inviting Elvis impersonators to a wedding instead of guests, or waiting extra long so your Cher doll could find a “secure” seat at the restaurant, or your children tricking you into a retirement home, or pretending you’re married to get a suite and nice dinner at a resort. 

I can spend some time with my “friends” because I can’t spend time with my friends. These uncomplicated, lighthearted people who can have a hug and a laugh whenever they want have become my safe space when the group text just won’t fill the void. Sure, I know they’re not real. I know that I’m not an elegant Southern woman. I know I don’t run a hotel or an apothecary in a small Canadian town. I’m not the editor of a startup magazine for the hip urban professional. I’m not fighting for my soul in the afterlife. And, much to my chagrin, I don’t have a lanai. But each of these shows, these places, these people, are a gift that I can give myself in a very weird time when I can’t see my flesh and blood friends in real brick and mortar places. 

We’re all learning to cope in real time. In weird time. In time where there really is no coping. Where nothing is okay. Where there simply isn’t enough midnight cheesecake to fix it. And, so, I hope you’ll forgive me for ending here...I’ve got a date with some friends in Miami.



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