I sat in the lobby just taking it all in as people passed through on their way to complete whatever urgent task was at hand. Some paused to exchange greetings with the receptionist on duty, some were engaged in discussions with other colleagues, and some simply rushed by with piles of papers and serious looks on their faces. They were all dressed professionally. They were all undoubtedly important. I wondered if I would ever truly fit in.
I slouched a bit in my chair, subconsciously trying to blend in with the wall behind me. I suppose it's normal to be nervous the first day of a new job, but the longer I sat the worse it became. The human resource manager was taking her sweet time and I was stuck there until she was ready to do my orientation. I was somewhat lost in my own world of miniature panic attacks when a girl entered the lobby and took a seat a few feet away. Without any hesitation, she asked if I was waiting for HR, too.
It took me a second to snap out of my anxiety coma and realize that she was in fact speaking to me. Who does that? Who walks into a room and strikes up a conversation with a complete stranger in a matter of seconds? Not me, that's for sure. I think I managed to squeak out a simple "Yes."
She was tall, thin, clearly younger than me but not by much. Short dark hair, dark eyes, and a natural, relaxed smile. Her self-confidence was immediately evident, and there was no doubt she was friendly, outgoing, and a complete extrovert - everything opposite my nervous, shy, introverted self. I tried my best to play along as she continued her attempts at small talk.
Her eyes revealed an air of maturity that extended well beyond her physical age and she was obviously intelligent. Soft-spoken yet articulate, calm and collected yet honestly excited about her first day, and happy. Not just in the moment at hand, but in life in general. A classic cup-is-half-full optimist, level-headed and at peace with her world, the type who wakes each morning with a smile on her face and a spring in her step. Ugh. I thought she was weird.
Fast forward almost four and a half years to last night.
As she hastily zipped around my living room, gathering her things and trying to keep her emotions at bay, my mind drifted back to those moments in the lobby.
I don't make friends easily. Acquaintances, sure. But not close friends. I'm extremely guarded. True to my Aquarius nature, I can be aloof and noncommittal, somewhat insensitive, and overly obstinate. I don't like to let people in. Doing so forces me to face those less-than-desirable qualities head on, and it's generally a lot of emotional work. More often than not I pass and retreat, content to stay in my own world without allowing anyone new to intrude and upset the balance I've grown accustomed to. But, she was persistent.
The first few months on the job, she remained open and friendly, chatting whenever the opportunity presented itself. Maybe there was a sort of kinship in the fact that we were both new kids on the block. But the real turning point, for me, came suddenly in the bathroom one lunch hour in May. I let her in.
I was pregnant. And terrified. Less than five months into a new job, in a new area, with no friends or family nearby. I needed to tell someone. I needed to get it out. I needed an outlet. I needed someone to know.
About two weeks before my surprisingly successful pregnancy was over, she found out she was pregnant, too. Our girls are just over seven months apart. Having someone to share in the journey of first-time motherhood was priceless. Someone in the same boat. Someone with the same fears, hopes, struggles, and challenges. Someone who understood, completely.
And in time, with each passing play date, swim class with the girls, birthday party, and Chinese food lunch hour, I began to view her with a status few people achieve: a good friend.
And now she's leaving. Forever.
Her husband accepted a position with a company in Houston. Last night was our final play date. And our opportunity to say good-bye.
I thought the whole evening would be a mess of emotions, but the kids provided some welcome distraction. We made it through dinner and play time without incident, but once she handed me her one-year-old son for a final snuggle, I lost it. My eyes filled with tears as pure sadness flooded my heart.
The kids, of course, were fully oblivious to exactly what was happening. She tried to hurry up and get out of here as to not drag it out and prolong the inevitable moment we would need to say good-bye. With her son securely in his car seat, she gave Punky a final hug while I did the same with her daughter. One moment later they were backing out of our driveway and we exchanged our final waves.
Then, I fully crashed and burned. I stood there sobbing like a baby, tears running full force, while the neighbor glared at me like I was an idiot. I've always been the realistic type. I know full well that was likely the last time we will ever see them and it was too much to handle. I tried to explain this to Punky when she noticed her mom was a blubbering mess in the driveway and asked why I was crying like that. She contemplated my words for about twenty seconds before sweetly asking, "Mommy? Can I blow bubbles?" Ah, the beautiful innocence of childhood.
Of course, we'll keep in touch for a while but time and distance will surely take it's toll. I'm truly going to miss her, and those beautiful kids. Who knows? Maybe someday Punky and I will take a trip to Texas for a visit.
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