Think back the very first time you thought you were in love. If high school rings a bell, dig deeper. At age 3, I was convinced Danny So-and-So, the son of my mom’s co-worker, was my soulmate.
But, seeing as I can’t even recall his last name, he wasn’t the one. Even so, I had to wait another six years to meet the ultimate loves of my life: Crystal, Lauren, and Nikita:
The four of us lead drastically different lives now but keep in close contact. Nikita has an adorable baby in incomparable northern California, Lauren dances the night away in Hollywood, Crystal is studying to be an eye doctor in serene Oregon, and I’m working in online news on the east coast. We’re all pretty busy, but thankfully Crystal paid me a visit over the weekend. She’s moving back to the rainy state in a few days, so it was great to catch up before the Hell of relocation infuriates the both of us:
Crystal’s flight got in late Wednesday night, which was tame until we got back to my apartment. Growing up, we used to always get into trouble during sleepovers for laughing all night long, refusing to sleep, keeping the whole house up, and causing unnecessary mayhem. It astounds me that our parents continued to allow us to have sleepovers, especially after the cops showed up to my house in 9th grade after Lauren, Crystal, and I shouted out the window to torment my mean neighbor. Even before that, our parents constantly knocked on our doors, told us to hush up, and rest. We defied all the rules.
Crystal and I giggled until 2 a.m. on Wednesday night, but we had my roommate to worry about. It’s funny how you still find yourself feeling concerned about the same problem over the years. We kept getting nervous that Anna would ask us to pipe down, but it never happened. It goes to show we haven’t matured since the 90s. We’re still loud, disruptive, goofy, and a little inconsiderate if it means we can laugh about the past.
Crystal reminded me of some of our outrageous stories, one of which involves the four of running out into the streets at night to chuck stale nail polish into the road. When I was 12, my clear nail polish took on a syrupy texture, which really bothered Crystal and Nikita for some reason. By eighth grade, we decided to destroy the useless tube once and for all. One hyper summer night at 12:45 a.m., we sprinted four blocks to Lauren’s residence, stood in the center of her driveway, and threw the nail polish onto the pavement. We bolted back to my house the second the bottle exploded. Looking back, it was pretty senseless and idiotic of us to:
1. travel so far to rid ourselves of non-functioning nail polish.
By the way Lauren, we’re sorry about that. You laughed about the stupid story a decade ago, but we were dicks to do that in your neck of the woods. You have my full permission to get back at me in some way or another as long as your revenge plans are funny in some way.
Aside from my poor roommate who just wanted some shut eye, Crystal and I bothered no one over the weekend. She visited TheDC office with me on Thursday and then we went bar hopping with my cousin.
That evening, I complained to Crystal that I have no time to meet guys outside of work and therefore have zero dating prospects.
“Why don’t you just hang out with men from the bar?” she asked.
“Because I need someone in an intellectual environment,” I explained.
After considering this notion some more, Crystal pointed out the obvious.
“I gave you one terrible idea, which is to party more, but I have another terrible idea for you,” she said. “Why not talk to guys on the metro? It will require no effort because you’ll be traveling to and from work anyway.”
“You want me to meet a man on the train?” I asked.
“There are tons of attractive folks in D.C. yet you overlook them all,” she said. “What would you lose from chatting with a guy on your ride to work?”
“Reading time,” I said.
“Well….I have no response to that,” she said, giggling.
Ten minutes later, our metro train stopped dead in its tracks for several minutes. Crystal then text messaged me about the tall dude standing several feet away. She found him cute but he was definitely giving me the dad vibe.
Crystal knows what she’s talking about, but I won’t set out to bother metro men. After all, I don’t want to end up on my own creeper blog!
On Friday, Crystal and I got our pedicures at a salon in DuPont Circle. For the first time in six months, I didn’t feel the urge to pick up my cell phone for an entire hour. We sat in a massage chair, drank champagne, told jokes, and relaxed. I was actually relieved that the salon lady didn’t try to make conversation with Crystal and me. We decided to get our nails done more frequently, as the salon visit proved to be therapeutic in a way.
By noon, we headed to Georgetown for Baked and Wire treats, lunch at Serendipity, and an afternoon showing of “Crazy Stupid Love,” which I reviewed earlier today. We walked around the Georgetown campus a bit and stumbled upon the O’Donovan building.
We went out with colleagues that night and wound up watching Nikki chew out a “creeper” on the train ride home.
While Crystal, Ameena, Nikki, and I waited on the metro platform, some guy approached us and began asking random questions. A little inebriated, Nikki said to him, “Hey Creeper, Laura over here has a creeper blog, so can we get your name?”
He laughed off the creeper comments, which she continued to dish out. I thought he seemed like a nice guy until he explained to Crystal that blonds are the ideal race.
“We need to keep the world full of people like us,” he told her.
“That’s really fucked up,” she said.
Keep in mind that this guy was burly and had bleached white hair, so he could have been a novice skinhead. Thankfully, we got out of his hair quickly and went home.
Crystal and I did all the tourist stuff on Saturday and had a quiet night at home. We actually watched 90s boy band music videos, but I have another entry on that, so sit tight.
During Crystal’s visit, we were reminded of the fact that old inside jokes resurface every time we hang out. That’s how it goes with our group of four. All we really have are our terrible jokes from youth, so as inane and moronic as they may be, we repeat them time and time again to hold onto our unusual childhood. We used to think we’d ditch the jokes by high school, but that never panned out. If we haven’t retired the bad humor by now, we never will. We just pray Nikita’s baby Brandon will be slightly more normal than the four of us were! He’s our only hope.