Return to Oz

Ah the girls weekend. Where we walk a fine line between just that, girls and women. Overly excited with a river of updates, commentary, and tell-all. Buzzed giggles and tipsy strolls followed by headaches and nausea, swearing off that darnded poison. Slowly moving from late nights to naps. Quickly moving from catching up to looking forward. Awww.

What's next? Jobs, classes, trips. Men. Boys. Handling them, loving them. Their plans. Kids. The Girls Weekend is chock full of reinforcement, encouragement that we can have it all. Career and kitchen. Thriving offspring and thinness and success. Good humanity. Encouragement bubbles from that pit in our female bellies, where all our dark things lie (I still don't know if this is the correct usage, Grammar Girl), and trickles into conversations, no trace of the doubt at the source, an evil, useless mineral dissolved by sympathy and hope. As it should be; that's what longtime friends are for, regardless of the differences now, the different lives, the tweaked personalities. They are the ones who hold memories like you, the only ones, the only beings of different blood who saw you evolve, regress with you, still try, off and on, just like yourself.

So what else you ask? Perhaps the curious male coworker thinks. Or Mom, perhaps the only other person reading this blog. What else fills up a girls weekend in 2010? A vampire movie. Of course. Skirted politics. Of course. Sailing. What the what?!

Yeah, the bestie from second grade Tiffany who's able to befriend Navy chicks and dragonflies and rocks, got us a gig sailing with neighbors. Yup, there are other people lucky enough to live on the idyllic isle of Coronado, the muse for Oz's Emerald City of which I speak fondly and often. And you pretty much want to beat these residents with a stick like every other person who abides in this residential heaven. Two fifty-something ex-Navy pilots were these covetees to be exact, whose brains I could pick between learning about the Cunningham line and steering a rudder of opposites. Opposite! Get that through your brain, Aly! Pull right to go left. Push left to go right. Left for right! Not to mention a break from the drinks and photos to take a spin on the roller coaster of a bow. I learned hurtling 20 feet into the air on the wake of a yacht actually is my idea of fun. And then 20 feet back down. And then up. The waves go away. Gripping the lines. Shoes drenched. Tha-rilling. Harry scoops up a stray red straw hat. Nic pops it on her head. Perfect.

We eat. Spicy chocolate. French fries soaked in truffle oil. Lemon potato chips dipped in dill cream. Fried green tomatoes. Breakfast sandwiches. Falafel. Coffee ice cream with peanuts. Crackers and sharp white cheddar. Salt and pepper pistachios. Breakfast burritos. We ride. Biking lazily along the smaller streets to avoid Fourth of July traffic, the parade, and find more things to eat and talk about.

I can't stop feeling like I fell into the pages of a J. Crew catalog.

Driving over to Coronado Friday the sun, mist, and clouds hovered at just the right atmosphere, making that connection from up high, making me feel lucky to live. Be here on Earth. There's always gratefulness to be had with friends who remember. Get one laugh in that's so hard it's silent.