Sharing is Caring.

Because I’m back in Auckland for mid-semester break I was around for bookclub (yes we have bookclub, it’s more of a culture club, which is more of a gossip club, but we like to call it bookclub because that way we sound intellectual when we have midweek dessert night). Last night, at Miss B’s house (she gets a title as she’s a teacher now), as well as Brad and Ange’s engagement and why pretty girls stick together, we discussed how strange other girls can be (a highly academic subject). For example, apparently some other groups of girl friends give each other privacy to get changed, go to the toilet at parties separately and don’t share deodorant. Apparently some other girl posses don’t wear slippers and sicko grey track pants to each others houses and don’t share clothes, even though the latter often means that you don’t know where your stuff ends up or whose got your new dress in their overflowing wardrobe.

Maybe it’s because we have been together for so long, we have navigated high school hallways and some have even graduated from uni. And have done EVERYTHING inbetween – the phases, the boyfriends, the school musicals, the detentions, the belief in invincibility. These are the same friends who let me dye my hair blond at 14, while I had braces and wore Teva sandels – I can’t figure out which part of that was the most cringey.

Don’t get me wrong, we aren’t some Babysitters Club who wear scrunchies and eat peanut butter cookies (ok, we do eat cookies) but our Catholic schooling taught us one thing, sharing. Sharing your food and your feelings, the goods and the bads, the books your reading and your new OPI nailpolish. Mates, they’re the stiffest drink you’ve got (I think I’ll copyright that). You’ll meet them, I’ve just got to think of suitable pseudonyms. Cheers.


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