InnerTeub

I met my friend Devon the first week of college. She was in my dance class, and she was really good. So good, in fact, I was trying to decide if I should hate her just on principle when I caught her giving me the stink eye and I realized she was doing the same thing to me. I was quite sure she would be my nemesis for the next four years, the person with perfect hair and cute leotards and an annoying tiny waist and I’d just have deal with her presence with what little grace I had.

Luckily for us, she had a wicked sense of humor and I decided her waist was really that tiny [Ed note: it totally is, I am lying here], and we could be friends, after all. And we’ve been great friends for 12+ years since, the kind of friends that even though I think I see her maybe once a year, it feels like I see her all the time.

In that spirit, I took two rare days off work last week and traveled to her parent’s house in upstate New York to help her with final prep for her upcoming wedding. We jokingly called this her Bachlorette Weekend, which is only funny if you expect bachlorette’s to don tiara’s and sashes and go clubbing instead of donning sweatpants and watching Downton Abbey in the basement of your parent’s house, which is what we did (it was awesome, btw) (and by “it”, I mean: the sweatpants, the Downton Abbey, and the parent’s house) (what?)

My only requirement for this weekend was in between dress fittings and hair and make-up trials and gift bag labeling that we finally, FINALLY, get a picture of the two of us, preferably without sweatpants on, fully showered and make up’d and looking nice. A picture I could frame, if you will. Because I have to tell you, after 12 years of friendship, this is the only picture I have of the two of us:

Yes, we’re drinking wine out of measuring cups. Why? Because Devon is too short to reach the shelf where I kept my wine glasses, and didn’t see the point in bothering with asking for help, when the measuring cups were at eye level and would work just as well.

Anyway, we didn’t get a picture.  And while I really, really want a *nicer* picture of us (in focus, perhaps, and maybe with some effort given towards our general appearance), I cannot think of a *better* picture of us – after all, I just spent a weekend recreating that exact motif: sweatpants, wine, couch, laughter.