Track 2: Callin Baton Rouge, Garth Brooks
Christy & Lori
They called me the unfriendly girl. It may have been earned.
When I started college, I was lucky enough to have my big brother not only attend the same school, but also live in the same dorm. Since he was an esteemed member of the Hall Council, he got to move in to his room a few days early. Enterprising guy that he is, he pulled a few strings and I moved in early, too.
So by the time my new neighbors, Christy and Lori, showed up, I was already settled--unpacked and decorated. Being a bit of an awkward girl (and more than a little shy), when I saw their two families heaving and huffing in boxes and crates stuffed with memories and bits of home, I hid out in my room.
Of course, I introduced myself when I ran into one of them in the hall. But I found myself simply trying to stay out of their way. My behavior earned the unfriendly moniker.
Which lasted all of a few days. By the time they began to settle in as well, they drew me out of my turtle shell and we became friends. They were quite a pair--best friends from Columbus. One, dark-haired and serious, with a quick sarcastic wit. The other, tall and blonde with a warm smile and infectious giggle. I loved them both.
Over the next several months, we became thick as thieves. We talked about life and how it felt to leave home. We dished about old boyfriends and the prospect of losing our virginity. We discovered alcohol and fell into the innocent experimentation of college binge drinking. We stressed about classes and what we wanted to be when we grew up.
But most of all, we danced.
I'm not even sure you could describe it as dancing. In fact, the first time I heard the ruckus next door, I wasn't even sure what was going on. I only heard loud, blasting country music and felt the walls shaking. Getting off my bed, I went next door to investigate and found Christy and Lori cranking on Garth Brooks, jumping wildly from twin bed to twin bed and laughing like maniacs.
"What is going on?" I laughed. "Come jump with us!" they cried, pulling me up into their hysteria. Bouncing on the bed, I was overwhelmed with energy. As Garth crooned for the operator to hook him up with his woman, I felt alive, too. When the song ended, we all dissolved into a fit of giggles on the beds, and tangle of pajama-ed legs and arms.
The song for Christy and Lori was apparently tied back to a high school story--the details are fuzzy these 10-odd years later--but for them, it had become a symbol of friendship, of fun, of a carefree life. It quickly became the “fix” used before going out on the town to prowl for boys; for cheering up after a particularly brutal test; for battling a case of homesickness; for commemorating a personal victory.
Periodically, I would hear the anthem sitting in my room and know a celebration session was in the works. Sometimes I would run over in a rush to join the exhilaration. Other times I would stay in my bed, listening to the squeaking and giggling. It always made me smile.
Over the next few years, my friendship with the girls began to ebb. Although we remained close--suitemates or roommates all four years of college--I felt more and more disconnected from them. Their intimacy intimidated me; I began to feel like a third wheel. When they both found solid, loving relationships and I muddled through unfulfilling ones, still struggling to find myself, I felt even more isolated. I made friends outside our circle and spent less and less time with them.
I see now that it was my own insecurities more than anything else that put space between us. I think they recognized that, and yet they loved me anyway--something I will always cherish them for. How rare it is to find friends who support you and care for you even despite your own self-destructive and loathing behavior!
Spring quarter of our senior year, they had both finished early and moved out to get a jump on the professional life ahead of us. By the time we graduated, our lives had already drifted apart. I was heading in a different direction.
We kept in touch, for a while, anyway. They shared stories of their career paths, their engagements to their sweethearts. I wrote of my adventures in Washington. I went to both weddings, proud to see my friends look so beautiful walking down the aisle. I cried when they exchanged vows with their beaus.
At Christy's wedding reception, the second of the two, the crowd was festive, dancing to the classic DJ tunes we know so well. Then the emcee announced a special dedication--from Lori to Christy. Out of the speakers came Garth's gravelly voice.
The two old friends rushed onto the dance floor and clasped hands, grinning, jumping and turning just as they had in their dorm room a few years earlier. I skipped out, too, joining the frenzy only momentarily before realizing we were the only three on the floor, I the interloper. Catching myself, I slunk back to the safety of my date's side, simply absorbing their joy from the sidelines. The moment was not mine to claim.
At the end of the night, I said goodbye to my old friends. I gave them hugs, wished them both well. We were like war veterans—bonded together by the loss of innocence; estranged by time, distance, ghosts.
But I didn’t resent the space between us. If anything, I loved them more for their carefree, joyous closeness.
After all, I was the unfriendly girl. And they taught me how to open my door.
They called me the unfriendly girl. It may have been earned.
When I started college, I was lucky enough to have my big brother not only attend the same school, but also live in the same dorm. Since he was an esteemed member of the Hall Council, he got to move in to his room a few days early. Enterprising guy that he is, he pulled a few strings and I moved in early, too.
So by the time my new neighbors, Christy and Lori, showed up, I was already settled--unpacked and decorated. Being a bit of an awkward girl (and more than a little shy), when I saw their two families heaving and huffing in boxes and crates stuffed with memories and bits of home, I hid out in my room.
Of course, I introduced myself when I ran into one of them in the hall. But I found myself simply trying to stay out of their way. My behavior earned the unfriendly moniker.
Which lasted all of a few days. By the time they began to settle in as well, they drew me out of my turtle shell and we became friends. They were quite a pair--best friends from Columbus. One, dark-haired and serious, with a quick sarcastic wit. The other, tall and blonde with a warm smile and infectious giggle. I loved them both.
Over the next several months, we became thick as thieves. We talked about life and how it felt to leave home. We dished about old boyfriends and the prospect of losing our virginity. We discovered alcohol and fell into the innocent experimentation of college binge drinking. We stressed about classes and what we wanted to be when we grew up.
But most of all, we danced.
I'm not even sure you could describe it as dancing. In fact, the first time I heard the ruckus next door, I wasn't even sure what was going on. I only heard loud, blasting country music and felt the walls shaking. Getting off my bed, I went next door to investigate and found Christy and Lori cranking on Garth Brooks, jumping wildly from twin bed to twin bed and laughing like maniacs.
"What is going on?" I laughed. "Come jump with us!" they cried, pulling me up into their hysteria. Bouncing on the bed, I was overwhelmed with energy. As Garth crooned for the operator to hook him up with his woman, I felt alive, too. When the song ended, we all dissolved into a fit of giggles on the beds, and tangle of pajama-ed legs and arms.
The song for Christy and Lori was apparently tied back to a high school story--the details are fuzzy these 10-odd years later--but for them, it had become a symbol of friendship, of fun, of a carefree life. It quickly became the “fix” used before going out on the town to prowl for boys; for cheering up after a particularly brutal test; for battling a case of homesickness; for commemorating a personal victory.
Periodically, I would hear the anthem sitting in my room and know a celebration session was in the works. Sometimes I would run over in a rush to join the exhilaration. Other times I would stay in my bed, listening to the squeaking and giggling. It always made me smile.
Over the next few years, my friendship with the girls began to ebb. Although we remained close--suitemates or roommates all four years of college--I felt more and more disconnected from them. Their intimacy intimidated me; I began to feel like a third wheel. When they both found solid, loving relationships and I muddled through unfulfilling ones, still struggling to find myself, I felt even more isolated. I made friends outside our circle and spent less and less time with them.
I see now that it was my own insecurities more than anything else that put space between us. I think they recognized that, and yet they loved me anyway--something I will always cherish them for. How rare it is to find friends who support you and care for you even despite your own self-destructive and loathing behavior!
Spring quarter of our senior year, they had both finished early and moved out to get a jump on the professional life ahead of us. By the time we graduated, our lives had already drifted apart. I was heading in a different direction.
We kept in touch, for a while, anyway. They shared stories of their career paths, their engagements to their sweethearts. I wrote of my adventures in Washington. I went to both weddings, proud to see my friends look so beautiful walking down the aisle. I cried when they exchanged vows with their beaus.
At Christy's wedding reception, the second of the two, the crowd was festive, dancing to the classic DJ tunes we know so well. Then the emcee announced a special dedication--from Lori to Christy. Out of the speakers came Garth's gravelly voice.
The two old friends rushed onto the dance floor and clasped hands, grinning, jumping and turning just as they had in their dorm room a few years earlier. I skipped out, too, joining the frenzy only momentarily before realizing we were the only three on the floor, I the interloper. Catching myself, I slunk back to the safety of my date's side, simply absorbing their joy from the sidelines. The moment was not mine to claim.
At the end of the night, I said goodbye to my old friends. I gave them hugs, wished them both well. We were like war veterans—bonded together by the loss of innocence; estranged by time, distance, ghosts.
But I didn’t resent the space between us. If anything, I loved them more for their carefree, joyous closeness.
After all, I was the unfriendly girl. And they taught me how to open my door.
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