Until Next Time

After an office lunch-hour filled with shoe shopping and subsequently four new pairs of shoes, my feet were armed and ready for fashion. Two pairs of flats, a pair of brown sandles and black stiletto heels with a black patent trim later, I was feeling fine about my feet. The rest of my body could use some work, but my feet looked gooooood.

My Friday night plans: pick up the Zipcar and meet my friend TJ at a local Italian restaurant near her house, about 40 minutes south of Boston.

Anyone who knows me knows I hate to drive. Anyone who has driven with me will tell you never to drive with me. And I’m even worse in the rain. I tense up. My shoulders become part of my head – an extension of my ears – and the 10-and-2 hand rule is strictly followed. The speed limit is obeyed, if it’s even matched, and at the first sign of chaos the hazard lights go on. And this night, it was raining. Nothing good ever happens when I drive in the rain.

But TJ is worth the drive… she’s always come to meet me in the city and always up for a late-night martini when she’s in town. We’ve spent years in the media business laughing, working and struggling together. Each time we meet, there’s always a “next time we get together…” sentence that usually ends with us dining at a fancy five-star restaurant and toasting our fabulous selves. We still have a list of “next time” places we have to try.

Over the past months, we made dates and canceled dates. But tonight was different. I was going to get there. It had been too long, and I’m traveling until mid-June, so there was no backing out. I hopped in the Nissan four-door coupe, turned on the windshield wipers, slowly reversed out of the parking lot and looked both ways as I eased out of the tiny city parking lot. I turned left to head for the highway, stopping quickly to make sure I didn’t miss another car coming at me. I hate driving. Ok – I’m good. I’m out of the parking lot. The local radio station is doing an 80s night – I’m singing along. I veer left to head into the tunnel that takes me to Boston’s South Shore.

The mother-f---er “service engine soon” lights starts blinking at me. Excellent. This is why I don’t own a car. I don’t have the patience for this. If something breaks, I throw it away. I can’t quite throw the car away, so I drove. The yellow “service engine soon” light blinking at me the entire way but I drove.

I finally got to TJ around 8 p.m. and called her to find out about parking.

“There is a valet,” she said.

“Great. I have approximately $10 cash on me…how much is the valet?”

“You’re not in the city, honey,” she said. “Valet is free out here in the suburbs.”

Sweet! So I drove in circles looking for the valet stand – which is usually right in front of the restaurant but apparently in the ‘burbs, they move the valet stand to behind the restaurant. Maybe that’s why it’s free. Anyway, in my quest to find the valet I actually found a parking spot. Pulled in, put it in park, and went to meet TJ.

We ran inside the restaurant, grabbed a table and took deep breaths as we inhaled the roasted garlic and fresh foccacia that was in front of us. We ordered gigantic plates of pasta and in between bites tried to fill each other in on what’s been happening. She with the kids. Me with the travel. We talked about the people we’ve seen and those we haven’t. We both realized that our year of self-pity had come to a close when we tried to zip our jeans that morning, so we’re both on a diet. After this bowl of pasta. And we agreed that next time we got together, we’d be five pounds thinner and treat ourselves to some shopping… and not just for shoes. Next time.

TJ finds out on Monday if she has cancer. Next time we get together, we’re going shopping.