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Health & Fitness

Yearning for Female Friends

A mother of five, now living in Farmington, writes about yearning for the tight bonds of female friendship.

I had a dream last night about my childhood friend, Liz Bernbach, who I have written about in the blog, and me running into her at some dinner out near a beach. In the dream, I knew that she’d Googled herself, and that my blog had come up, and I hoped that she was okay with it.

This morning, I woke up kind of missing her. Last night, before bed, my husband Fotis and I spoke about her carriage house in East Hampton that her family used to rent. Even though it was the “carriage” house to the larger structure, it was this massive, spacious and stunning beach home right by the water.

I remarked to Fotis that I am really enjoying my new(-ish) female friends here. I moved to the Farmington Valley in 2004. There's Jeri, with whom I do yoga, who, like me, is raising a baby girl. Then there's Meg, who is married to Fotis’s right hand guy and is also a mom (and runner!). We have Music Time together on Thursdays. I met my friend, Caroline through the kids' school. And our now (new!) Farmington neighbor, (another) Carolyn came by on Monday with her two children for a playdate so we could each break things up over the long, President’s Day weekend.

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I told Fotis that I miss having the core group of female friends I had growing up and yearn for it even. When I was friends with Liz, we were in a tight-knit group of four, really, at the end of senior year of high school. We went though so much together. I am constantly having memories of just being in her room on Columbia Heights, on her rug, listening to her B&O stereo system. We spent hours and hours in Liz’s room along with Marina and Emily, all our leisure time, really. The airy space overlooked the Promenade and the skyline of lower Manhattan, replete with the Twin Towers we grew up with, overlooking us back, in Brooklyn Heights, something masterful, right out there, an anchor.

Listening it to Da Da Da by Trio, and even that first Madonna album we played over and over in her bedroom, us also owning the black rubber bangles she wore. Liz's room was so beautiful and cream, right next to her white carrera marble bathroom, and her white, plush towels. Ever since, I have only had white towels in all my bathrooms, as an homage of sorts, to Liz.

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So, Liz, this morning I woke up missing you. Us. Us then. And then. And a bond of four. We shared a yearbook page all of us, and I did quote Pee Wee Herman's, “Excuse me, I’m on the phone!” And you wrote, “We’re all living in a bovine world.” And having crushes on Aiden Quinn and being fascinated by Jennifer Beals in Flashdance. And going to the Olive Tree in the Village together, too young, as they served us sangria, at the age of fifteen. And The Clash and The Cars and Talk Talk. And The Cure.

So very soon after, we disbanded, like The Beatles, but neither the public nor any of us were crying or pulling out hair. Because it had been intense, and long, and a new, clear page awaited each of us to fill in.

I was going to write a blog today called “The Kindness of Neighbors,” but I find myself going to you, Liz. Us posing up on your roof, for our senior page layout, next to the water tower. How chic and cool and all in black and white — You and Marina were the editors, right? I don’t even fully remember if that’s certain. I remember, chiefly, your room.

Jennifer Dulos also blogs at www.fivemakesseven.com.

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