My main squeeze of the non-romantic variety and I occupied our table at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse last Friday from the tail end of “early” Happy Hour to the beginning of “late night” Happy Hour. This, my friends, is the way to do HH if at all possible.
(By the way, I’m not sure if “Happy Hour” is supposed to be capitalized like it’s some kind of national holiday, but as far as I’m concerned, it should be. So I’m going with it.)
It takes fortitude, but mostly, it takes one of your people. The kind of person who knows all of your stories, but still finds them hilarious, because she lived 90% of them with you, or at least knows all the people they involve. The one who, in a span of a Friday night dinner service, can cover such topics as: babies and babymaking, ex-boyfriends, suicide, Beth Moore, wedding planning (well, groom selection), “what if I die”, and others. This particular Friday evening, over half-priced champagne and ahi tuna, we talked dreams.
I told her how in my heart of heart of hearts, I would love to be a writer. Then I paused and mused, “I suppose I should update my blog more frequently than every 4-6 weeks, then.”
Without hesitation, that bestie of mine replied, ever so sagely, “Well…yeah.”
And I laughed out loud, because I love her, and her honesty. I love having friends in my life who will not sugarcoat my flaws and shortcomings. She refused to sit across that bar table and bemoan my lack of literary success with me, as though I’d done something to deserve it. Too often, people tell us what we want to hear. Friends will tell us what we need to hear, even if it’s uncomfortable or doesn’t flatter us.
I’m thankful for my friend. I’m thankful that she doesn’t kiss my ass but holds my hand. She doesn’t believe I’m owed anything, least of all success, but she believes I can get there. She believes in ME.
I’m thankful, and so lucky.
(And, just so she knows, I believe in her too.)
To my Happy Hour muse, you know who you are, thank you. For last Friday, and many more to come.