An open letter to my college roommate:

My dear friend Carrie,

As you approach a half a century and I think of our friendship of almost 30 years, so many stories come to mind.  We met during my sophomore/your junior year.  We had rushed the same sorority and lucky for me, ended up being roommates and friends for life.  Like all college co-eds, campus life afforded us many memorable shenanigans. This experience was only enhanced by our living in the same sorority house.

There were six of us that lived in that spacious top floor dormitory.  We dubbed it “The Penthouse.” I suppose we thought that made us sound sexy.   In reality, three of us wore black and thought we were groupies for the Smiths; the other three wore pink and green ribbons around our collars and knew what grosgrain was.  (You’re googling it right now aren’t you?  Unless you grew up in the 80’s and remember the Preppy Handbook you are probably not familiar with this word.)   I came from a small town in the boonies of Michigan. You came from a tony suburb of Detroit populated by descendants of Dodges and Fords.

Somehow, we both ended up in Ann Arbor.

Freshman year I lived in the “Jock Dorm” (Yes, I see the humor. I have no idea why I was placed there.  But honestly, where were they going to put me?  In the Class Brain dorm?  Umm, Michigan.  EVERY DORM was the class brain dorm.  And when I got to U of M I realized I had nowhere near the brainpower that the rest of the student body had.  It kind of made sense I was with the kids that were there because of athletic ability.)

You came from the all-female dorm on campus nicknamed “The Virgin Vault.”  That was what probably led to you being voted, “Most Likely to be a House Mother.” Well, that and the fact that while the rest of us were buying stretch pants at Express, you were browsing the racks at Talbots.  My guess is by now you have progressed to Chico’s or J.Jill.

I, on the other hand, was voted “Most Likely to be Heard Round the World” and “House Headbanger,” proving that some things never change and some things COMPLETELY change. (Ok, Ok, ….So I DID go to a party once with a guy named “Beast” which MAY have been why I got that last moniker.)

You are the friend that gave me what Ted has labeled the “Worst Housewarming Gift Ever”:  A giant bag of tulip bulbs.  I loved them; Ted, being the one who planted them all, felt any “gift” that required manual labor was no gift at all.   (For years before he had a handle on who was whom, Ted referred to my college friends as “the little one,” “the one who worked for the NBA,” “the one who lives on Lake Shore,” and the “one who gave us all those tulip bulbs.”)

It’s common knowledge that if you are my friend, being a good sport is a necessary requirement.  But you go above and beyond.  As evidenced by the following stories:

The Friars: The Friars were a campus a capella group consisting of cute boys (with talent!)  We have revisited this story countless times and it is still as funny to me now as it was the day it happened.  You had a late class.  The Friars were coming to sing. I had your composite picture.  What more needs to be said?  The handsome and talented Friars arrived during dinner to promote their upcoming concert. Greeting them on the door, right above the doorbell, was your formal picture.  There you were in a black, off the shoulder drape, smiling at them.  I had added a speech bubble, “Welcome Friars! Love, Carrie.” You arrived shortly after. You walked into the dining hall with the photo in your hand red-faced and laughing.  Another “sister” wouldn’t have been as gracious with me.

The sleepover: One of the rules of living in the sorority house is that boys were NOT allowed beyond the first floor. Most people adhered to this because who wants to sneak a guy past 65 women and a crotchety old house-mother named Kitsy? It’s also just common courtesy to your roommates to not have a man in your room overnight.  Sometimes though, when you are liquored up, common courtesy goes out the window.  One night, for reasons I can’t really remember, my boyfriend and I stumbled home from the bar and literally crashed into my twin bottom bunk bed. My five roommates were asleep.  My boyfriend was passed out. He was a big guy, 6 ft tall and built like a football player. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The next morning you came in from the shower and started getting dressed. Your dresser was three feet from my bed.  Well, I think you remember what happened next, even if I can’t.  Let’s just say he got closer to your boobs than he did to mine that day.   I MUST INTERRUPT THIS LETTER TO MENTION THAT THE GIRLS IN THIS ROOM WERE WHAT SOME WOULD CALL “CHESTY.” I think we can assume that if my boyfriend were awake at this point there is a good chance it would be HIM telling this story to HIS friends 30 years later instead of ME telling MINE.

That was the last time he stayed in our room.

Side Note:

Sometimes your husband reads a draft of your blog and comments that it is a little long and that perhaps one paragraph could be trimmed and suggests it be the one about your college boyfriend that you haven’t seen or talked to in 25 years and you are not married to and then insists he is not upset but then also says maybe you should cut the part about the guy named Beast you went to the party with because it’s not really funny so you briefly consider building an entire blog about past relationships but then decide you will maybe just add an unnecessary but satisfying sentence describing the boyfriend as “6 ft tall and built like a football player” and call it a day. 

To let you know how long my trickery lasted the final story I will tell is one that happened several years after college when we found ourselves both living on the East Coast.  I was in Boston and you were in Hartford and we tried to get together when we could. One weekend we decided to drive the entire Cape.  We stopped at Plymouth Rock for the obligatory visit.  Who knew there was an entire living history museum there on the tall ships complete with actors?  Seeing a young handsome lad “playing” an adventurous seafarer was all I needed to try to make a love connection for you.  If you think trying to play Cupid with two embarrassed people is funny, try doing it with a person trying to stay in character from the 1600s. He may have told you he was unable to go play mini-golf due to a severe case of scurvy.

I should tell you that my sorority was the best thing that happened to me in college.  And not just because of the endless parties and pranks.  In a university the size of Michigan, making friends and finding your place is hard.  Sorority life WAS college for me.  There was no U of M without the house and the girls in it.

Carrie, you are one of a small group of women I have consistently stayed in touch over the past 30 years.  You and they have been there for me for the good times and bad. The ones who sent care packages to me and gifts for the kids when Ted was going through chemo.  The ones who were game to get down on the floor in cocktail dresses and try to form a pyramid at my wedding.  The ones who drove from miles away to be there when I have had family members die.

Here is what I know for sure: The longer you have friends the longer you have them.  My closest friends are the ones I met when I was still a teenager, before I really became an adult.  These are the people who formed me and made me who I am.  The ones that no matter what accept me for who I am. They not only really know me, but also really SEE me.  Through the ups and downs of life, and the friendships that come and go, these girls have been a constant for me.  Thank you for saying “yes” on bid night.

Loyally in επ,

Samantha XO

     

Text from Carrie when I told her my birthday letter to her was turning into a blog post: 

“Dear God, this is exactly what I was afraid of. Lol. Isn’t that how I started the conversation the other night? Of course you have my ok.” 

Left, above: Carrie and her pilgrim   Right above: Carrie’s composite picture    

Top picture from left to right:  The little one, Carrie, the one who lived on Lakeshore, and the one that worked for the NBA