Misery and company

For the first time in twelve years of friendship, C.S. and I are happy at the same time.

We've been simultaneously miserable plenty of times. There was the time we were so miserable that we collapsed in a fit of pathetic laughter at the state of our lives on the floor of a department-store dressing room in a decidedly understocked mall moments before it closed. C.S. was looking for a suit to wear to a stuffy corporate job interview; I was procrastinating during my thesis-writing. The skirt she was trying on didn't make it past her knees, she fell into a heap, and we laughed the kind of silent laughter that makes your stomach hurt.

There was the time a particularly scary bug got into her dorm room. I was recovering from a bad breakup; she was recovering from a bad final. We were both sleep-deprived and exhausted. I finally captured the beast in an upside-down glass embossed with our college logo, slid a playing card underneath it, and released it into the night, as we cried hysterical tears.

There was the time we drove to the 7-11 in the middle of a miserable night, bought an Entenmann's Marshmallow Iced Devil's Food Cake, and split it, consuming the entire thing until we were sick to our stomachs.

There was the time we scoured the entire city for a German chocolate cake (why do so many of our memories involve cake?), finally procured one, brought it home, stood around it, and, drooling with anticipation, wielded the knife to cut into it, just as our sick friend promptly sneezed all over it.

Now, I have two beautiful children. She is in a good relationship in a good environment that she has entirely created for herself.

I wonder if our friendship can survive this much happiness.