h to the amps for the bach

I remember walking at night from the car to the restaurant, up a brick path at Bamboo, Alexandra in her uniform (jeans, wedge heels, a long booby shirt, and long necklace). She began to pet my arm. "Cookieface," she said, "remember this moment. This will hopefully be our last summer out here as single girls. Because if we turn into those tiger ladies–"
"Cougars."
"Yes, I’ll just die."
"Die? Really?"
"Yes, muppet. I will diiiiie."

Three summers later, she’s still alive. And happier than everyone around her, in that way that only a bride can be.

I’m heading out to the scene of the crime tomorrow. I’m taking off to New York to celebrate Alexandra’s bachele-whore-ette party in the Hamptons, and from there, I’m heading back to Los Angeles. I’m of course torn because I feel like I’ve only just returned home, but this is an event I couldn’t miss. I’ve spent so many summers in the dungeon with my friends, and although we’re all in different places in our lives now, going back with the girls isn’t going backwards. It’s not like going back to an ex-boyfriend. But it is strange, returning to a place in your past, when the moments at the same restaurants were spent so differently than you’ll spend them now. We’ll be back at Bamboo on Saturday night, toasting with our saketinis and chins held high. Before, I’d have been checking my phone for that text message from a suitor. Now I’ll be checking it for updates on home life, for "I miss you" texts from my husband. But as much as things are different, they’re also always the same.

Alexandra will be Radio Commando, bossy as ever with the soundtrack of our weekend. And I’ll still love her for it, while I lug around the heavy SLR, and force her to pull over so I can get that shot. It will all go by too fast, as it always does. The one thing I’m not looking forward to: going to a club. Some things never change. Kill me now.

h to the amps for the bach

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