Another One Bites the Dust. Dammit.
Between my boyfriend’s acerbic yet uncomfortably accurate comments and my own sarcastic wit and zero patience for people whose company cannot rival time with a good book, we lose friends as fast as we make ‘em. Oh, and if one of us actually happens to get one to hang on, the other hates the hanger on. This is why we have very few couple friends. And this is also why our social life can’t take another hit.
Despite the fragile (fragil-eh? It must be Italian!) state of the piñata that is our social life, we just received another swift blow.
Our bestest ever couple friends arrived to our wine & cheese party a full hour early. Not unusual…
…Oh but the Welch’s grape juice she poured herself looked beyond suspicious. My eyes narrowed and hers widened.
“How many people am I glaring at right now?” I asked.
“Holy shit, congratulations, honey!”
“I wanted to tell you before everyone else arrived. I hoped grape juice would look enough like wine that no one else would put two and two together.”
“We’ll keep your secret, I promise.” I hugged her gingerly because I didn’t want to squeeze the foetus out of her. My discomfort with children starts at their womb stage.
“I thought you’d be super happy for us…or totally pissed.”
“Oh I’m ecstatic for you!” (That explanation point was not a declaration of feigned excitement. I’m genuinely happy for my friends. For reasons that are beyond me, they’ve been trying to have a baby for ages.) “Of course, I’ll wallow in self-pity and too much wine tomorrow but just remember that my first reaction is happiness for you.”
“I will. And I promise I won’t become one of those parents.”
“Honey, you are totally going to become one of those parents.”
“Yeah…I know. Promise you’ll still blend the margaritas and listen sympathetically while I talk about nothing but diarrhoea and snotty noses.”
“I promise I will do that.”
“You won’t do that.”
“No, probably not.”
I think we were both a little depressed at that point.
I brightened. “I tell you what. I promise I’ll come over once in a while and force you to slap on some make up and stuff your feet into high heels even though we’re both just sitting in front of the television. You can promise to ply me with enough booze that I don’t give a fuck what you’re talking about.”
“And you’ll ignore the spit-up on my shirt and tell me I look just as gorgeous as I did that day on the island?”
“The day when I found out you were pregnant?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“You have a deal, lady.”
We toasted to our tenuous agreement and then I told her she did indeed look gorgeous.