I am practically hoarse. My voice is completely shot. Flu? Strep? Head cold? Nope. I just got back from a girl’s weekend. Nonstop talking (and listening) for three straight days.
These are girls of my way back past. I won’t admit to the number of years but we met in elementary school. And although we are nothing alike, we are exactly the same. Communication past holiday card swapping is rare but every few years we gather together to catch up. So we talk. And talk. These are real conversations, not the social small talk of cocktail parties and acquaintances. And it isn’t gossip or networking because we aren’t unkind housewives of the television type nor corporate ladder climbers. Certainly secrets are shared but you won’t hear them again. As one friend coined it, this is ‘pinkie swear stuff’.
The location and scenery were beyond gorgeous and the food and drinks rated five stars but you could give us peanut butter and diet cokes most anyplace and we’d be happy.
All good things must come to an end so after the weekend, bags we packed, hugs exchanged, trunks loaded. Lucky for me, I carpooled, so the three of us were able to continue the conversation over the long ride home. As one pal joked, too bad we couldn’t think of a thing to say.