Friends in Low Places
I’ve redefined the song lyrics and my priorities
The infamous party song from Garth Brooks came out when I was in high school. Every station in the country seemed to play it on a loop. That year, I dated a few ropers as we called them, a.k.a. Shitkickers, rednecks, or drugstore cowboys. Weekends meant sitting on the busted tailgate of some old Chevy drinking beer and listening to twangy Country music. Friends in Low Places would inevitably play and everyone would toast their Keystone or PBR and sing along, typically loud and out of tune. As often in youth, we had no idea what the lyrics meant. We were just living our best drunken lives in the forever of puppy love.
Now soundly in the realm of middle age, I have discovered that having friends in low places is everything. It’s no longer about getting blitzed and making out under the stars, the phrase now describes the people who act as lifelines in this wild unchartered phase of adulthood. The low places are divorce, menopause, dying parents, empty nesting, and getting colonoscopies. The friends who live there are the women (and men) who listen to my fears, share my tears, and offer up details of their private battles in the name of commiseration.
I can’t say I’ve shown up in boots and ruined anyone’s affair, but I have to admit I don’t always feel like I fit in exactly. I feel like I’ve said it in every blog this year, but middle age is a weird stop on the superhighway to growing up. There’s so much grey area sandwiched between our parents’ and kids’ generations. When is the right time to respect your parents’ wishes and butt out? Will you know when it’s time to intervene? Which fights are worth fighting when it comes to giving my babies advice they didn’t ask for? What about me, where and who am I if I have no one to manage but myself?
That’s where my low friends come in. I have a few ride-or-dies in my contact list who know my deepest and darkest thoughts. They are the ones riding shotgun on this crazy train. They, too, are struggling with holding on, letting go, getting angry, shame, guilt, and learning self-compassion. We all agree it’s a giant ball of suck.
Don’t get me wrong, your spouse and/or therapist is a great outlet. My poor sweet hubby has listened to so much guff from me about my feelings over subjects from trivial to colossal. But he isn’t the same. He has his way of dealing with things and I have mine. I need my sisters from other misters to howl at the moon with me and drink red wine as if it was the blood of our enemies. They have been there, at the bottom, climbing out of the dark blur that was our teens, motherhood, and early adulthood.
I remember in my twenties watching Sex and the City. My opinions were complex. I was judgy about their promiscuity and weird fashion. I admired their strong bond and weekly noshing budgets. I wanted to be a super successful writer living in New York while simultaneously preferring old sweatpants and my kids cuddled up on the couch with Chef-Boyardee after a hard day. I chose family because I thought I had to, and honestly, in those days I probably did. I only had so much time, energy, and space to give. I had to be judicious and I created a hierarchy: kids, family, job, best friends, sleep, food, everything else.
I never imagined then that I would be here, flirting with fifty, kids thousands of miles removed, parents a long day’s drive away, retired, and starting over with a new identity (and to clarify, I mean emotionally, not witness protection). Now, I get it. The women in my life I chose as sisters have become paramount to my life; they have become priorities. I am now a priority in my life. But that didn’t happen overnight and I didn’t wage the battle alone. These girls are my free therapy, my soul vacations, and my fellow soldiers. Sometimes the cannonballs come from unexpected directions. Sometimes our enemies are familiar and age-old. Either way, I am so very grateful to stand beside them on the front lines.
Two texts this morning lit up my phone. One: A friend with a grown child who is stretching her parental patience toward mental collapse. Two: A pal with several struggling college-age kids whose phone calls give her emotional whiplash. I listen/read with sympathy and respond with a bloody and bandaged shoulder to lean on. We email or call regularly, make lunch dates, discuss our expanding or shrinking waistlines, and end with a sincere thank you for the immeasurable support. I love them. I need them. I am them.
Screw Sex in the City, I’ll take my friends in low places any day.
