Remember Kaylina?

“Max, you’ve got to marry that girl,” I said way back when my kid was all of 24 years old and as far from marriage as I was from retiring into a life of pickleball.

Max had gone to school in California despite his godmother Margaret’s warning – DON’T let him go to USC, he’ll never come back. After graduating he did indeed live at home for a while, but as predicted, was all-too-soon packing up to move back to Los Angeles. 

 

Told you. Margaret said. 

 

Max informed me that there would be one last backyard barbeque with his buddies before he left. 

 

The heartache of losing my middle child – perhaps permanently – to the west coast was greatly diminished as I sat in the kitchen watching what was transpiring outside. A dozen or more adult children belted out indecipherable rap lyrics while a bottle of Hennesy passed from lip to lip. Meanwhile, live embers danced from a hookah pipe, landing with a defiant sizzle right onto the wooden deck. I annoyingly envied my ever-loving spouse’s talent for sleeping his way through my greatest anxieties. 

Tanya, who is Max’s best girl friend (as opposed to girlfriend), brought a buddy to the going away party. (It’s not a party, MOM. I’m just having a few people over.) I’d never met Tanya’s friend before, but she saw the whites of my eyes and came inside to sit with me. She assured me that there would be no house fire, drunken driving, or subsequent lawsuits. She wasn't making fun of me. She was calm and warm and I believed her.

I am one of those shallow people who is mesmerized by physical beauty. And she was beautiful. Toss in her kindness, compassion, and soulful heart and I was transfixed. Quash my ever-shaking insides — and I became absolutely obsessed.

 

Which is why, at the end of the night while helping Max toss beer bottles into the recycling bin, I said, “Max, you have to marry that girl.”

 

“What girl?” 

 

“Tanya’s friend. Kaylina.” 

 

Visible eye roll. 

 

“MOM. I’m moving to CALIFORNIA.”

 

Over the years I’ve gotten a version of that very response from each of my three children whenever I dared to suggest anything as ridiculous as a long-distance relationship. I’m the kind of romantic who believes that true love wins whether you’re 3000 miles apart or on the other side of the world (shout out to Vio, my beloved Israeli daughter-in-law). But far be it from me, married for a mere 37 years, to know anything about the sacrifices you make when it comes to love. 

And so he left.  

A bunch of years later, Max came home. Because of the pandemic he had been furloughed from his job and eventually laid off. When his lease ran out and the world was still in flux, he reluctantly returned to his childhood home. Ironically, before his bags were even unpacked, he was offered a job back in California. Since everyone was working remotely, his request to stay in New Jersey was approved as long as he adhered to west coast hours and returned to LA when they started back in-office at the end of the summer. 

 

It wasn’t easy merging coasts in the heart of the pandemic. Max wasn’t particularly compliant to protocols whereas we were quite cautious here in Teaneck. We actually knew people, real people, who died from COVID. We were in the throes of it with friends, acquaintances, and friends of friends getting sick every day. To add to our unease, I had been recently diagnosed with psoriatic arthritis, making me higher risk. Max was coming from a part of the country where the weather allowed people to be outdoors all the time and socializing was not nearly as restricted or stressful. 

 

So it’s no wonder that he didn’t tell us what he was doing or who he was hanging out with. I just flashed a lot of evil eyes as he walked in and out of the house at will while I became expert in administering antigen tests. 

 

But we all survived. 

 

Right before he was set to move back to California, Max walked in the front door holding the hand of a lovely young lady. 

 

“Mom,” he said, somewhat nervously. “Remember Kaylina?”

In My Life

The last time I was in Asheville was ten years ago. I was with my daughter and her four college roommates, the five sets of parents, and Stephen and Sandra – the heart and soul of the North Carolina crew – all there to celebrate Julie and Joe's wedding. Now, a decade later, I was with a different group of friends, but we were eating at the same restaurants, walking the same streets, and sharing the same sort of camaraderie and glee. 

 

“I’m in Asheville with my college girls. I’ll call you when I get home,” I texted after sending Carla’s call to voicemail last week. Carla is one of the UNC moms.

 

“You need to call me now,” she responded. 

 

And I did.

 

Thirty minutes later the six of us were settled in at a rooftop bar toasting the life of my dear friend Stephen. Not one of my college girls had ever met him, but every one of them knew him. 

 

That’s what happens when you’ve been friends for over 50 years. We’re all very much in each other’s lives – perhaps too much so sometimes. All week long we waited for word from Mallorca to see if (the other) Betsy’s daughter got engaged. We watched videos of the dueling screamers Sue left behind in Florida, and laughed long and hard about the mild chocolate shakes that shaped Peggy’s youth. Thanks to Ann we learned that there’s a little bit of artist in each of us, that Jeanne is a thief, and that there’s a reason you shouldn’t take alcoholic beverages into the hot tub. 

Some things never change. 

 

We rode the trolley loop through Asheville proudly flaunting our floppy hats and senior citizen discounts, toured the Biltmore with minimal grumbling, and marveled at Ann’s residential art gallery and studio in Hendersonville. We dreamed of the day we’d stay at the opulent Grove Park Inn rather than in an off-the-beaten-path Airbnb with peeling paint, musty bedrooms, and an oven that doesn’t turn off. We sweltered as we walked our way to and through the artful wonders of Marquee, stuffed ourselves with too many tapas and glasses of Albarino at Curate, and climbed as far up Catawba Falls as our aching bones allowed.    

 

I have loved living a life filled with friends. But it's not all fun and games. It takes time, effort, and considerable investment to stay connected as you grow old and apart. My first friend group was formed when I was four years old. Our rainy day séances (JFK give us a sign!) and our nighttime games of capture the flag have been replaced with multi-generational soirees and weddings but the neighborhood gang is forever bonded by the magic of Woods Road. I still have birthday Zoom calls with my best high school cronies who were there for all my firsts, from cigarettes to speeding tickets and everything scary and sordid in between. There’s the Brigantine bunch, all with tangled roots in TV Guide magazine, who also make up our annual Hearts tournament which has been thriving since the 1980s. I have my mahjong MVPs, my play group pals, the UNC parents, the mermaids, my CNBC colleagues (one in particular who talks even more than I do. Just imagine the millions of words swirling around all those calamaties we've faced since 1990), my two favorite lunch date girls, my walking buddy therapist, my ever-expanding pickleball posse, my favorite Cohasset queen, my Portugal pals with whom I laughed and cried and danced to Dolly Parton, my voracious book clubbers, the parents of the Fab Five, the baseball buddies who helped me burn holes in the bleachers, the Friday night winers, the Bible beaters, my writer’s groups, my canasta crew, and of course Claire without whom my kids would not have survived. I’ve made friends everywhere from cruise ships to horse shows to beauty salons and kept them, if not close, at least in my clutches. 

 

But there’s something about this group of girls (yes, we’ll always be girls) who were thrown together randomly as roommates, hall mates, and bar stool mates. Tottering on the precipice of adulthood we had no earthly idea what that entailed. So we fumbled through it together, starting out fresh, daring to be different while we undid the damage of our pasts, trying new approaches (some worked, most didn’t), and mastering the art of making out with random guys. We helped each other recover from heartaches, poor fashion choices, and incredible stupidity. It was the luck of the draw that brought us together, but something much deeper cemented that connection.

 

The college girls get together at least once a year. No excuses. No life getting in the way. It’s a must. Our focus has changed as we have changed, but our humor still gets us through both the joys and the horrors of life – and we’ve certainly had our share. After all, it’s kind of hard to get through half a century completely unscathed.

 

“You know,” said (the other) Betsy on that rooftop bar as we raised a glass to Stephen. “They say that when one person dies, somewhere a baby is being born. It’s just the cycle of life.”

 

My phone pinged, I’m not lying, within 30 seconds of me internally rolling my eyes at her comment that was akin to “it’s good luck if it rains on your wedding day.” 

 

But there on my screen was a “She’s here!” text from my friend Mineko announcing the birth of her first granddaughter. 

Talk about fuzzy feelings. 

 

My ever-loving spouse and I will be in France when Stephen’s celebration of life is scheduled to take place in Chapel Hill.

 

Don’t you dare change your plans, Sandra said. Traveling with friends makes me happy and you know it’s what Stephen would want you to do.

 

Stephen epitomized friendship. He believed in finding the good in everyone and making everyone around him feel important. I suspect he would have even been kind to the likes of Austin Rivers (IYKYK) if they happened to cross paths after a fateful basketball game. Call it coincidence, or divine intervention, or just stretching things to make a good story, but there was something mystical about being back in Asheville with my college friends when I got the news that Stephen had died. 

 

Stephen was universally loved but he touched each of our lives differently. While he was kinder, more generous, and more hospitable than I will ever be, we were both powered by people, driven by love, and fueled by fun. 

We were kindred spirits bound by the pure and simple joy of friendship. And what an incredible gift we were given. To have had so many good friends from so many different walks of life. And to be able to say of each and every one of them, "In my life, I've loved you more."