I had an amazing Memorial Day weekend with my high school friend Pete, and his partner, Dustin.
They live in West Palm Beach, Fla. Early in the mornings–well, two of the mornings–Pete and I ran. Four miles according to his tracker, three-and-a-half according to mine.
I’m going with his numbers.
As we ran, we talked. While we floated around the pool for six hours, we talked. At the beach the next day, we talked. Over breakfast, before I left, we talked.
I’m not much of a talke
r. But there is something about that high school connection–that common bond of fear and fun and foolishness, forged at the tenderest part of a young life–that demands talking, even thirty-plus years later.
And as we talked, we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Deep, breath-catching, gut-wracking belly laughs, the kind you only have among those with whom you have shared “the best of times” and “the worst of times.”
But Pete and I share an even deeper bond. It is a bond of “otherness,” a shared feeling of being apart from the world we were born to. Maybe everyone feels it at some time. But as we realized this weekend, it has been the driving force in our lives.
Pete has now found his place in Florida. I have found mine in St. Louis. Between us are many miles and different ideas of success. But we both feel we’re attaining it, each in our own way.
Over time, that definition may change. It probably will. But our friendship is forever.
And that’s the best success of all.
