My writing assignment was to write about relationships. As I write this, we are T- minus twenty days from the mother of all relationship days—Valentine’s. Whether you are pro or con this holiday, if Hallmark, 1-800-Flowers, and See’s Candies have anything to do with it, it is here to stay. There have been countless poems, books and ROMCOMS dedicated to the “romantic” relationship so I will leave that to others who are far more qualified. I will spend my time on the “Rotic” relationship. Quite simply, Rotic is “romantic without the man.”
This is in no way a “man bashing” commentary, it is simply meant to focus on the beauty of the friendship and sisterhood amongst girls and women. I am sure there are similar relationships amongst men, but we would need a man to tap into that perspective. I can only comment on my Rotic relationships.
Anyone want to go on a little trip? Let’s go way back to September 1979; Fresno State University, Homan Hall, second floor, dorm cafeteria. It was a freshman orientation “get acquainted” dance. There was also a pair of white painter’s pants—no, not on me, on a super-cute guy at the dorm dance—along with nine girls sitting on the sidelines of a room that smelled of French Fries and nervousness.
While we were mainly “observing,” we were also “leaning in”—before “leaning in” was a thing—and that was only to get a better look at the hunky white painter’s pants dancing machine right in front of us. At some point, when painter’s pants boy never asks you to dance, you decide it’s time to go. Yeah, the other nine girls join in and decide to call it a night too.
How random is it when we all walk back to not only the same dorm, oh my gosh, the same floor! Sitting in the corridor junction the questions start to fly. What’s your room number? Who is your roommate? What’s your major? Where are you from? Do you have a boyfriend? What did you think of the butt on the painter’s pants guy? Why does it smell so weird in Fresno? We don’t realize it yet, because we are too young to understand, but something special is happening. We all think it’s fun in the dorms; we’re totally cool, and how lucky we are to have just met a new group of friends.
As time goes by, it is the typical college experiences that bind us: first loves, first breakups, firsts that you don’t want to talk about including, parents divorcing, fake IDs, good grades, bad grades, stolen (borrowed) cars, risky road trips, and broken hearts.
Our group grows when we meet some of the boys on the other side of the junction. Thick as thieves, we travel in a pack (much to the dismay of everyone else around us) but we feel safe, invincible, and loved without needing to explain it to others; it just is and we know it to be true.
The next phase in life includes graduations (some take longer than others), marriages (some have more than others), moves out of state, etc., and yet we all feel the need to stay connected because it doesn’t seem to take any effort at all. Since we are young, gainfully employed, and each of us has more than fifty dollars in the bank, we decide to try and get together once a year.
Initially it doesn’t take any effort at all and if you are counting, we are now at about forty-one years of getting together—that is until COVID messed up our perfect record.
We still have the same core group of nine girls and now have two more; both added when the boys we were closest to from across the junction met their wives. Forty-one years and countless pinky-swear private bathroom conversations later, our experiences now include more than just the fun stuff: divorces, affairs, Alzheimer’s, arrests, drug addiction, suicide, should we continue to do this, money concerns, cancer, and death just to name a few. With this girl group, we can spill our guts or say nothing. We can talk every day or go months without speaking. We can see each other throughout the year or only at the annual party. We are Christians and agnostics. We are Democrats and Republicans. We are sports nuts and lovers of the theater. We agree and we fight. We are pro-gun and advocates for gun control. We are 49ers and Raider Nation. We may or may not be friends if we were to meet today, but I’d like to think we would be.
I am not sure what the next 20 years will bring, but I know for sure we will still get together. Who knows if we will all be able to fit in the bathroom with the addition of raised toilet seats, canes and walkers, but I can assure you we will try and the conversations will be just as lively and real as they always have been.
If Cupid had shown up and asked me what would I like as my Valentine’s Day wish and I had to choose between a romantic evening with George Clooney or a Rotic evening with my girl group, I can assure you I am picking Clooney. The primary reason? They would want me to. They would never forgive me if I didn’t. However, they would insist on a “bathroom talk” and want me to share every detail, no matter how big or how small.
Side Bar: “You can do it,” he said. “It will be easy,” he said. “I’ll help you through it,” he said.
“Here goes nothing,” I said, while under my breath, I was taking his name in vain. Not the capital “HIS”, but the lower case “his” as in one of your favorite contributors to this magazine—Mike Copeland.
I have known Mike for many years, and he has always encouraged me to try my hand at writing. I am not a writer nor never intended to become a writer. I am a healthcare professional who writes in medical charts which automatically makes my writing illegible and based off some language with roots in the always popular, Latin. In full disclosure, the only writing of mine that Mike has ever read has been my annual Christmas letter, which he always seems to enjoy. I’m only assuming, but he must have been given an assignment by his editor to find new blood and someone willing to write an ALIVE article for free.
After what I can assume was a resounding no from everyone in his Rolodex (yes, I said Rolodex), he tapped me and eventually I acquiesced, so don’t judge him too harshly if this turns out to be a flop.