Never before in my life have I appreciated other women as much as I do now. Though, if I’m totally honest, never before have I moaned about other women as much as I do now. Some of my friends do things that drive me up the wall, and rather than seeing things through the rose tinted glasses of the early days of friendship, I see them in all their real, human, occasionally annoying glory, because these women are no longer my friends, they are my family. Like the old saying goes, the family I chose for myself…
At the risk of sounding like a trashy womens magazine, my friends fall int0 categories: the one’s I’ve always known and the one’s I’ve only just met. Some saw my knee’s in my schoolskirt and other’s have listened to every woe of new Mummyhood that I’ve ever felt. I can’t pick one, and say it is she who matter’s most, because friendship is a very selfish matter: my woman friends each satisfy different aspects of my personality, and in their own way mark time in my personal history.
For a long time I loved them, but thought they didn’t matter: I had my house and my man, and my little world was a cosy and contented place to be. I can’t be the first woman to think that was enough. But a huge part of me missed the camarderie woman friends have, and although I still don’t count myself as the world’s best friend (I am scatty, and selfish and forgetful), I am doing these special women the honour of doing my best to show them that I care.
I just hope they know.