No one was more surprised than I when I made the football cheerleading squad in high school.
They changed the rules the next year to lessen the weight of grades and teacher recommendations in the selection process and make cartwheels mandatory. But for one glorious summer and fall I had eleven best friends (and two alternates) bonded for life over the challenge of the "Boogie Fever" pom-pom routine.
But it turned out that friendship is not about having the same whiter-than-white sneakers, ponytails or knee socks. At the end of the season, I was again invisible.
If we were never allowed to graduate from high school, the human race would stop in one generation. Adulthood is infinitely more complicated, but the rewards are spectacular.
An adult friendship can grow from one tiny string of commonality to an impervious steel cable. It repels slights, insults and irrational moods and holds steady, especially when you can't stand alone.
The men and women who are my friends have little in common with each other. They are so geographically diverse that most will never meet. One even plans to vote for Bush, and I love him enough not to reveal his name to the others.
I denied myself the gift of friendship for many years, too tightly wrapped in work and family. As that cloak has loosened, my world has opened to an incredible midlife gift.
No need to pass out pom-poms, or even be in the same place. This squad rocks.
I used to think I knew exactly where I was going and what I needed to do, but it's now a privilege to say I'd be lost without them.



Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs