Happy Bunny is getting married next week.
I am trying not to think about it too much in case the overwhelming and conflicting emotions roil up and make me puke or cry or sneeze or laugh. Or ALL OF THOSE THINGS AT ONCE.
I feel like it was only a week ago that we were eight years old, hiding our trolls in the garden so just puffs of fun fur stuck up over the flowers. But I also vividly remember all the steps we have taken since then to make ourselves into who we are today. Some of those steps were joyful and some of them broke my heart.
We are both extremely alike and very different. She avoids confrontation where I sometimes embrace it. She stops to think where I plow ahead recklessly. She plans where I run away. She's stable and I crave change. I have always felt that she's more loyal, more understanding, more patient than I can ever be. Especially with me. She would also never have just written a sentence fragment.
But we grew together, twining like vines around and through each other and supporting each other. We have the same sense of humour, the same love of the ridiculous. We love the same music. We've written almost daily emails to each other since I was 13 (that's when she made me my first email account). We are both introverts who love carbs shortly followed by naps.
The drawing is of the summer that we were 15. We used to sit on the beach and pull out the grass by the roots and make wreaths out of it. The wreaths would rot within three days and start to smell super terrible. But we determinedly did this for 2 years before giving up. I feel like those two years were the years that solidified our friendship into something stronger than I could have imagined.
Happily, I absolutely feel that her relationship with Matt is as strong as our friendship has been so far. I also really love him. Can you ask for anything more than for the people you love to be with someone that you totally and completely approve of?
I wouldn't wear incredibly painful silver sandals for any other couple. That's love.
And we all know that I will end up barefoot anyways. So there best be no Spilly Talkers on the dance floor or I am gonna have to clean my feet with their suit jackets. (And yell "WHO'S THE SPILLY TALKER! WHO! WHO?!??!")
I can't wait!