Reno

My neighbor Judy is a sweet, sharp-tongued southern gal. She sips a Stella Artois in a koozie, running fingers through her hair while telling me for the third time, “He knows he’s welcome here any time he wants. Even when we’re not out here.” “He” being my 19-month-old, bird-seed throwing son.

Judy has dementia, so she forgets things sometimes. It took her a while to learn my son’s name, but she’s got it now. Sometimes, I see her wandering down the street alone, usually on her way to visit another neighbor, Betty. I watch from a distance, never intruding on her fierce, independent spirit, but always making sure she reaches her destination safely.

She and her husband Ben are the closest family we have. I mean, you can’t get closer than next door, can you? And although we’re not blood-related, you couldn’t tell that by the way we love on each other.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to meet Judy’s friend Donna. They worked together many years ago and, even though Donna’s moved miles away, she and Judy keep in touch.

“We went to Reno together,” Judy tells me. “We had a great time. Drunk…” I laugh at the thought of these two kind old ladies, having a wonderfully intoxicated time together.

“Ben worries,” Judy says, and we both know why. “But, I make sure she gets to her room and she makes sure I get to my room.”

“AND,” she continues, “If I know my room number, I’m good. There are men and women who work there who will take me to my room.” I nod in understanding.

“I’m not gonna go off with a stranger,” she assures me firmly. “If anyone touches me, I’ll kill ’em.” I believe her.

Even when Judy is having a hard time remembering things, she knows how to take care of herself. If she loses her way, she gets back, or at least gets found. She knows her limitations and doesn’t let them stop her from living her life. It’s one of the things I admire most about her. That and the clever way she talks shit.

I watch her interaction with Donna. The way they poke fun at one another how only long-time friends have the privilege of doing. The laughs they share. How much they adore one another.

“I only saw YOU the last time I was here!” Donna exclaims.

“Good! I’m the important one!” Judy responds. She’s trying to convince Donna to stay longer today while demanding she come back tomorrow.

In so many ways, I am Judy.

I can spend hours with a friend and instantly miss them once they leave. Kind to many, yet close to few, as much as I’d love to be my most authentic self with most people in my life, I could count on one hand the number of people I’d feel comfortable alone with on a road trip.

(Well, two hands if I’m including Travis Barker, Rihanna, and Idris Elba. I’d be on the next rocket to Pluto if any of them asked me to go.)

“All the people I love in one little village, with our own market and laundromat,” is my personal dream. “We can visit other towns, but we always come back.”

“We always come back”: a complex concept for an “all or nothing” lover with a tendency to allow toxic people to cycle through my life. Admittedly, I’ve gotten a lot better at the “or nothing” part. But, my capacity to love is ocean vast and snowflake unique, which often makes me a magnet for narcissists craving nurturing.

Yet, my village… my tribe… my squad… these are the ones who not only pour back every drop of energy they sip from my cup; they make sure I am filled to the brim. The ones who apologize for not getting back to me right away. Who offer to come get me when I am panicked on the side of the road with an inconsolable infant. Who check-in weekly, sometimes daily, just to see how I’m doing. Who make me laugh so hard I regret not wearing waterproof make-up.

These are the ones who make me want to be brave, and open, and honest, and vulnerable.

These are the people I want on my trip to Reno.