Spending time with her actually makes me feel bad about myself in every way possible: looks, personality, finances

T

he car turns hot and sticky mere seconds after I turn it off, but I don’t get out, even as I feel my waterproof mascara slowly melting.

The thing about meeting Hadassah for acai bowls in the middle of my one day off is that while I can forgive my grocery stocking slot and only chance to sleep in, spending time with her actually makes me feel bad about myself in every way possible: looks, personality, finances. You name it, I can feel insecure about it. And maybe that’s not how you’re supposed to feel after hanging out with your best friend of 29 years.

It wasn’t always like this. I remember a young (and dumb?) Hadassah and Baily who spent every waking hour together. It’s not like we even spoke; half the time we were just reading Harry Potter in the same room. Dating, marriage, first babies; the friendship held strong even as our lives took different turns. And then eight years ago, Hadassah had Benjy. And she stopped being fun. Or funny. Or anything really, aside from medical advocate. And I discovered a strength in her that I never knew about, and that I don’t even think she knew about. But I also lost her in the process. She insisted nothing had changed, but everything had. She was so busy and so tense and almost feral, like I was trying to do something other than what I had in mind, which was just talk. It took a few months, but eventually I stopped sharing my day-to-day life with her, and now our friendship just consists of the big moments, without the little ones that make up my other relationships.

But hey, acai bowls got me out of my recluse rut, so Hadassah gets major points there. I can’t remember the last time I went out with a friend.

A car horn beeps; Hadassah’s pulled up alongside me. She keeps beeping, a goofy smile on her face. Oh, is old Haddasah here today? That’s fun. I beep back enthusiastically until an old lady walking into the tile store turns around and shakes a fist at me. I slink down in my car seat while Hadassah laughs.

I get out of my car. “All thirty-nine year-olds act like this, right?”

Hadassah flips a glossy sheitel lock over her shoulder. “You’re thirty-nine? That’s super embarrassing for you. I’m nineteen.”

“You look nineteen,” I say, pulling her in for a hug.

She winks. “For the right price, so can you.”

Oh, don’t I know it. And that makes looking my relatively young age even harder. Okay, I can get away with 32-35, easily, which is nice. But I bet Hadassah still gets carded when buying Kiddush wine.

“Also, get yourself a Moroccan mom,” she says, ushering me into Bowled Over. “Mine’s almost as good at cooking as she is at criticizing, but she did hand down some great genes.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll get right on that.”

We settle into mauve suede chairs, and I run my hand over the arms. The material is soft and cool; I close my eyes for a moment, centering myself.

Hasdassah clears her throat. “Uh, am I interrupting something?”

I crack open one eye and glare at her. “Actually, yes.”

I open the other eye and we smile at each other.

Would I choose Hadassah to be friends with today? Probably not. But there’s something about sitting in the company of someone who’s known you for most of your life. It’s comforting.