Granted, I’m not familiar with the “law,” morality, common decency, and other such nonsense, but instinct suggests that the picture to the right may not be… how do you say? Kosher. It occurs to me now, at the ripe old age of 27, that our parents not only agreed to, but also paid for us to dress like 11-year-old streetwalkers. Streetwalkers, Keni! And it wasn’t even Halloween! What would Chris what’s-his-name on Dateline’s To Catch A Predator say?
My rationalization for posting this picture is the following (by the way, this picture is far more horrific for me than it is for Keni): I, of sound mind, posted this picture to remind Keni of where she and I came from (which apparently on this particular day was whore school). Why? Because Keni is getting married in two—count ‘em—two days. And, since Keni is one of my most faithful readers and my oldest friend in the world, I decided in my infinite wisdom that she deserved something special.
"Special" being a blog post dedicated to her, complete with mortifying photo for the world to see. Sure it wasn't techinically on the registry, but I wonder if this counts as my wedding gift...
But I digress...
The way I see it, your impending nuptials provide me with an excellent excuse to take a very brief trip down memory lane (this is a blog after all, I can’t write a damn novel). And I do love me a trip down ol' memory lane. Shall we, Keni?
Like you really have a choice...
Keni, your readers and my readers may not know this but, I met you before people stopped calling you Keni and started calling you Kendra, before you became a Texan, before high school and college, before "real" jobs and quarter-life crises, before living with on our own and living with roommates and living with boyfriends, and yes, long before you met your husband-to-be Blake. But I knew you after you spent the better part of your elementary school years in Cincinnati. Yep, that's me. I'm the person wedged between the bookends of Cincinnati and Dallas, a mere pit stop on the road to all of the places you eventually went and the place you are now, a little town I fondly refer to as "The Bus…” that is, Columbus, Ohio.
In case you’ve forgotten… it was 1991 and for one year it was all about jazz class with Sandy, slumber parties, fashion shows, hanging poolside, our moms explaining that “Keni and Lou” weren’t boys, and our crowning achievement--our moment in the spotlight--the Jitterbug flip as preformed in front of approximately 50 parents and disgruntled siblings at the annual Dublin Dance Workshop recital. You taught me so much that year, like that the Humpty Dance wasn't just a catchy tune about some guy in a funny hat getting his groove on—it was about something far more sinister. It was a simpler time Keni… a simpler time.
And then, when we were 12, you’re family decided to pack it all in and leave “The Bus” forever. Sadface.
It's weird, Miss (soon to be Mrs.) Keni. I know that you know that I know that we're the outliers. We're those people who said we would keep in touch and actually did. For almost 17 years it’s been letters, phone calls, trips to Ohio, trips to Texas, trips to Michigan, trips to Chicago, emails, Web chats. Damn… we’re kind of old.
And now, you're getting married! I am so happy for you and Blake, and insanely excited that my mom and I will share this day with you (yes… my mom is my date to Keni’s wedding. No judgment people). What I'm really trying to say is… Congratulations! If there is one thing I know about you, Keni—from experience—it's that you can keep a promise (you said you’d write and damnit you did); the commitments you make aren't easily broken else I wouldn't be hoping on a Dallas-bound plane tomorrow. Texas Forever!
P.S. Just to save a little face here, I'm actually four inches taller than Keni... now. I was a late bloomer, what can I say?