Best-est-est-est

(Just found this and I'm not sure why I never posted. I wrote this entry last January. Better late than never!)

A best friend. We all want one. At one point or another in our lives, we thought we've found one. We might think we have one now. You may. Best friends are these idolized relationships that can rarely live up to the expectations we give them.

They want to be the ones that you can tell anything to. They tell you everything. They know all your secrets and you, theirs. You go to dinner, movies; you laugh at all the same jokes, you love the same music. They are you, only better. And they'd say the same about you if someone asked. They'd never not call when they say they will, and they're by your side before you have to ask. They know what makes you sad and avoid these subjects like the plague. A best friend brings your favorite dessert over when you tell them you've had a bad day at work. Boys never come between you, and they're there for you even if it means canceling a big date. These are the best friends we want. These are the best friends we want to be. These are the best friends we'll never have. These are the best friends we'll never be.

Years ago, in middle school or even before, my friends and I would rank our friends on a scale of "est"s. Sure, being a best friend was good. Being a best-est-est-est friend, was better. We'd give an extra "est" for each time that person made us feel like we mattered. Or because they were beside us while we were making the list. Or they'd bump up our popularity points.

We'd claim best friends forever but our lists would change daily, weekly, monthly. In the next two years, many of the people on the list would have stolen our sister's bathing suit or our favorite necklace or our boyfriend. The list would change and evolve. And one day, we'd stop making these lists, calling them childish and irrelevant. But it was still there. In our heads. And each time we saw them laughing with someone else, passing us by in the halls, being someone else's biology partner, we'd demote them in our heads. We'd vow that we could find someone to replace them. But then they'd be back, and could somehow make it back to the top of our lists in a few seconds. We'd deny such a list exists.

We've all had a best friend. We can all remember the moment that they stabbed us in the back clearly. We still feel the sting. We remember when they let us down, or when they found a new best friend. We remember when we drifted apart. We remember when we found someone to fill this new-found void. We remembered to hold ourselves a little closer, and this time, maybe we could be the one to let go first. Maybe this time, we'd have someone else lined up to fill the position when we were pushed away.

One day we'd look back at our best friends and wonder if such a thing ever existed. If there was one friend who was better than all the rest. Someone who fulfilled our image of them. Fulfilled the role of "best".

We want to believe that we'd be a great best friend. But we all disappoint. We all screw up, and we all get blinded. We forget, we move on, we let go. We forget to call or ask about their day. Sure friendship is about forgiveness, but should a best friend be able to screw up? If we are called the best friend, shouldn't we be the best at being a friend that we can be. And is anything short of that a failure? Is that why they're so fleeting? Expectations?

One day we let go of pretenses. We stop having best friends in a move of self-defense or something else. We have friends. We have good friends, work friends, acquaintances, and sometimes even great friends. We forget to sign our notes with the few extra "est"s in fear of disappointing or disappointment. We stop creating an impossible image. We stop believing in best friends. We think it's sad to let such a tradition die but we are tired.

(Secretly, we still hope they exist, even if the image looks a little different. We keep one eye open like a pre-teen on Christmas. We try not to be too disppointed when our parents have a milk mustache in the morning and their breath smells suspiciously of Oreos.)