I met these guys when Michael Jackson was cool, pegged jeans were a must and I slaved to feather my curly hair. (Not pretty.) And yesterday, 20 years later, after receiving a text about a little martini party, I slid into the car, hit the 5 and headed to San Diego to see my Jersey Boys.
We talked about sneaking out when were kids, throwing parties when our parents were away, playing questions in the middle of the night. We talked about why I consider myself a recovering Catholic, starting new businesses, and Hanson. Yes, Hanson.
We played air guitar, sang our guts out, got reprimanded by the security in Jimmy's apartment complex and giggled as we shut the door in their faces.
We were, for a Friday night, 16 again.
They're solid. Ridiculously funny. Insanely loyal and pretty darn smart. When I lost my job, I drove straight to San Diego. When I got dumped, I cried on them. When I need advice or think I might have a genius idea, I call them to find out what they think.
So the question is, who do you go to when you need a friend? (Or a martini.)