An A-Line Skirt

 I've always wondered how my friends viewed me. Oh sure, I haven't exactly breezed through the self-conflicting identity crisis of the pre-adolescence stage and I as sure as hell will not deny that I have had moments of only vaguely remembering who I am.

But I've long since started to forgive myself and have had ample beginnings to atone for the rash mistakes of my youth. Thus, with renewed self-awareness, albeit minus the self-pity of self-centered pre-maturity, I now try to examine the intricacies of my friendships. For after all, there's got to be some truth to that whole hullabaloo of "tell me who your friends are...blah, blah," right? Right.

Many people have always said that I have the tendency to stay with my own little clique of friends, and that I was virtually raised into this world by my gay friends. And I must say, they're damn right on both counts. Growing up (older, taller, plumper) has made me realize that I have little patience for the whiny, weepy, girly, and sometimes, traitorous complexities of girly friendships. Not that I never made any girlfriends, it's just that they are very few and far between. Add to that the fact that I appreciate (and sometimes relish) the bluntness and harsh beratings of reality constantly showered over me by my three closest gay friends.

Tovs, Ferns and Lei. Yup, the three men who are as part of me as every strand of my wild, often unkempt, hair, oftentimes a subject of their notice but never of their harsh perusal. And by that fact alone I know that they hold me in high emotional regard. After all, gays are supposed to be the connoisseurs of perfect beauty, right? Right.

Many moons ago, I stopped harboring my not-so-secret hatred of my hair's stubbornness to conform to society and flat-out accepted my fate. Ferns, Tovs and I were gorging on a particularly large heap of NY Classic (with extra cheese) at Yellow Cab. After catching up on the latest gossip, Golden Globe conundrums and hated ex-classmates, I caught Ferns eyeing my spectacularly disheveled mane. I raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to grow it long?" Ferds, the epitome of classically-chic hair conformity asked me with the blankest tone ever made legal. I hesitated and replied to the feminist, individualist tune of finally accepting who I was. "And besides," Tovs volunteered, "You're an artist!" And with that bohemian perspective, we accepted the fate of my hair with finality.

It got me thinking into how much their opinion meant to me. Had it been another girl with disheveled hair, I knew they wouldn't be as gentle. I realized that I had been expecting their snippy comments at times, when none were really coming. Maybe, with the age of friendships comes the temperance of what makes each of us stand out, making every single characteristic still exist but often diluted with regard and compassion. And something else. Love.

Any person who grew up with her chosen friends can attest that they will reach a point of being proud enough to say that they've been through the worst of times and have roughed it out, with battle scars intact and interlocking with each others' wrists. It's a common miracle. No biggie. Still, I often peruse the magic of how the strength of our bond has made us see each other in lights that would only exist through the others' eyes. Sum it up to that they actually see me in a better light than I see myself. And thank the heavens for that. Because if they ever saw me as I see myself, I know they'd be aghast to see the mini-insecurities of a past hastily shoved away and hypocritically labeled "over." Every time I round a dark corner, I see how they see me, with hope and a focus on the best qualities I've long thought non-existent, that, in a way, it gives me hope. As if I am near salvation. Or even worth saving. And I knew, deep in my heart, that I look at them the same way, even as their eyes glaze over from not seeing their own beauty for themselves.

Even as Ferds gently reprimands me that Diet Coke is the same as the regular one. Even as Lei snorts that the chunks of cheese in the Spaghetti I cooked for dinner are as big as I am. And even as Tovs looks on with a non-committal air as I chew on one pizza slice to another. They may never openly berate me that my behind is getting too frumpy to be legal, but they often prove that I still have the potential to be saved from my inner tantrums. And how can you really help it, if you're in a circle of true friendship? In retrospect, the three of them know how my tongue accelerates when it comes to Lei's problems with a certain shrew, that only Ferns' offer of food screech me to a halt. Hmmm...but this shrew would be for another installment.

For now, I'll try to wrap up this semi-ecstatic, semi-drunken rant. If you search for a point, I will not volunteer it to you. Look for it. If you have any real friends you'd know my point. And this is my blog and I'm nasty when I've had three rounds of vodka, so tee-hee.

For now, I offer this piece as a tribute to my three closest gay friends. With their angelic demeanors, nasty cackles and evil plottings. I may never know what you see in me to love me, but I appreciate the fact that you look at me and see what I can become, or honor me for what I once was.

Just recently, Ferns threw caution to the winds and decided to pursue his dream -to become a fashion designer. He pooled his money and enrolled in the tutelage of a Paris-educated master. One windy Saturday, while he sipped his quintessential iced and I smoked my Marlboros, he poured out story after story of how he is finally finding his niche in this world. His eyes sparkled with happiness and unshed tears and I swear that there was so much hope in the air I was surprised that Seattle's Best wasn't turned into a dressmaking shop with a wave of his pattern-making hands.

Suddenly he looked at me, ultimately caught up in the throes of artistic inspiration. "Let me make a skirt for you," he gushed. "An A-line skirt!" Stunned, I huffed and I puffed and blew the idea away. No way am I going to disclose my waistline, much less, have my hips measured! And my legs! Well, actually my legs are fine but still.

We were quiet as we walked to the bus stop. I kept wondering why he'd offer to make the skirt for me. God knows there are enough fake fag hags to go around for one of them to fit in as his pseudo-model. Why me?

But then I realized, maybe I'm the one making a superb effort of screwing up my self-confidence. What a way to go. Your friends try to boost your morale and you try to make a massacre out of it. And thus, the ultimate gift of friendship: accepting yourself as your friends have accepted you.

Before Ferns and I parted to go home, I told him to give me a month. A month to lose some of my belly and actually see my hips contoured by his mythical skirt, I told him in jest. But actually, a month to get to know myself, the self I've professed to hate and have hated for so many years because of its many imperfections. A month to get out of my self-inflicted shell, and maybe the rest of my life to appreciate the gift of acceptance and unconditional love.

In the form of an A-line skirt.