What’s the brightest color in the crayon box?

Hiked the other side last week., originally uploaded by Suddenly Single.

Back in 1991 I met this skinny, smart mouthed chick. She had crazy long, red and curly hair that you envied and also was grateful it wasn’t yours because it would take forever to brush it out or style. She was obnoxious and loud. She ran with a posse of girls only half as pretty as she was and I didn’t like her.
As if 1991 wasn’t full of new things in my life, like a boyfriend, his crazy ex girlfriend AND his newborn son…I had to deal with this chick?

It wasn’t long before we moved to Sacramento. I wouldn’t have to deal with crazy anymore. Being 19 and being able to put all your belongings in a Esprit bag and travel trailer to move 3 hours away was scary and exciting at the same time.
A little bit before I moved I got into a “conversation” with with this chick about her poor choices and she said with all the confidence in the world, “You don’t pick who you fall in love with.”
Oh for fucks sake, who spouts out one liners like this!? She did.
I took it with me and let it roll around.
You don’t pick who you fall in love with. I was raised with free will and was encouraged to make choices. My mother is a firm believer in the ‘give you enough rope…’ theory on raising children.
My first boyfriend, I had picked him. He was the new guy in town and I didn’t know anything about him. The next guy was exciting and fun and I thought I would fall in love with him too.
Psssh! That chick was dumb. I picked who I fell in love with.

After I moved to Sacramento and found my own footing, I ended up meeting up with that crazy chick again. She was living down here now too and instead of only hearing ONE side of the relationship story, I listened to hers and despite my wanting to hate her and not believe her…I did. “Kristine, you can’t pick who you fall in love with…” she went on explaining the story of her and the boyfriend and the drama that had followed them. She was everything I should hate, but I couldn’t hate her anymore. She went from Crazy Chick to Tammers in the span of a night full of talking. We would become great friends over the years. I still didn’t understand half the stuff she said, but I loved her zest for life.

It’s been 19 years and I remember the exact moment that I finally understood what she was spouting off. She meant REALLY love someone, like take a bullet kind of love, that ‘why in fuck would I love someone like this?’ kind of love. No, I wouldn’t have picked him to love because for every reason that it could work, it shouldn’t. This man…is not my type and I have spent too many years not really liking him because he’s grumpy and egotistical.   Oh god damn it. I GET IT, TAMMERS….I finally get it!

This weekend we met up for coffee and chit chat and in the middle of our commiserating she spouted another one. “It’s not what I think I am, it’s what YOU think I am.”
Again, for fucks sake woman, what does this mean!?
I wasn’t going to wait another 19 years to figure out what it meant, but I was going to let it roll around and let myself figure it out.
I had a three hour drive home and I thought about all that she’s going through and how far in life we have both come. I count this girl as someone I not only love, but admire. She has the ability to take the lemons and make not only lemonaide, but a whole empire of lemonaide stands where all the proceeds of the sale goes to curing cancer and free boob jobs for the flat chested.
“Hey Tammy, I’m awesome and I think you’re awesome so that’s really all that matters.”
She tilted her head and gave me her signature smile, “Exactly what I am saying!”

The dialog in my head went something like this, “I am not what I think I am. Yes I am. I am awesome, wonderful, loving, scared, a little girl, weak, strong, unorganized, spontaneous, smart, dumb, silly. I am a lot of things, how am I not what I think I am?
I’m what you think I am. No. I know a lot of people think I am something I am not and I would have to call bullshit if anyone had the balls to say it to my face. Tammy is retarded and I will have to ask her what she meant when I get home.”

I did. I asked her what she meant and she explained it to me.

All I ask is, please God don’t make it take 19 years before I FULLY understand what she meant.
…and please let that crazy, skinny, adorable woman be a part of my life for another 19 years.