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girls’ night in the unforgiving desert

The last several years I lived in D.C., I met my girlfriends S. and A. weekly for drinks. “Girls night” was generally on Thursdays, and often late. A. worked full-time at Georgetown University and went to law school in the evenings. S. was a lobbyist for hunger issues and represented food banks. I worked for NPR. We were all professionals and all dating.

Over bottles of wine and cheese plates, we debriefed each other on dates, gave each other advice on work, talked about world events and shared exciting trips. It was our time to vent, over-share, laugh hysterically, and, most importantly, trust. At one point, S. said, “Can we do this always and forever?”

A. and I both fell in love around the same time, and we talked each other off ledges in the early days as we worried about one thing or another. Over time, we both realized we met our life partners, so we looked to S. for fun dating stories. One time, S. brought her computer to the bar and we helped her write her Match.com profile.

Then, not two months later, two weeks after I returned from a vacation with (my husband) A. in Tanzania, I showed up and said, nonchalantly, “I think I might be pregnant.”

They looked at me, incredulous: “Why are you not running down to the corner to get a pregnancy test?”

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