It Is Your Birthday

Ten years ago, I auditioned for a play called A Midsummer Night's Dream. I was thirteen, in eighth grade, and surprisingly cast as Helena. One Ricky Turner was cast as Demetrius, and when we learned we had to hold hands in the show, I blushed and he giggled. Or maybe the other way around.

This play had a stage manager. She was an odd little seventh grader who always wore a furry moustache and a beret. "Hi, you're Lindsay," she said to me the first time I talked to her in the auditorium for play rehearsal. "Here's your script and you can call me Pierre." And that's what I called her for the next six weeks.

Somewhere in that time, I did learn that her name was Reilly, that her brother was Ricky, and that she was drier, more sarcastic, and more hilarious than anyone I'd ever met.

In high school, she wove in and out of my life. We'd hang out for three weeks straight and then go back to being only school friends. I brought her movies when she broke her ankle. I watched her date a boy whose greatest mission in life was to live amongst the hobos of Salt Lake. I graduated, then she graduated a year later, and then her brother went on a mission...

And that's when I learned what it could feel like with a best girl friend to see every single day. This girl is many things.

This girl is ambitious. She longs for beach houses, Blackberries, book signings, castle weddings, comfort and coziness for her family, and Paris.

This girl is compassionate. She is the very opposite of selfish, constantly considering the other point of view. She rarely has strong opinions--not because she's dull or opinion-less, but because for her, life is about who you're riding with, rather than where you're going.

This girl spells horribly. I mean, horribly. But you should hear her speak. She will whip you with her words before you even knew she was talking.

This girl is creative. She has gorgeous pictures in her mind, and stories, and songs and poems. And you will never find anyone more appreciative of the arts than her. She is the girl who has her new favorite song on repeat for three weeks straight and still is in love with it.

This girl is open. She is willing to try new things, always, no matter how silly she feels, no matter how ridiculous it sounds. She wants to be worldly, to have experience, but mostly to just see what there is to see.

This girl is terrified of birds. She's terrified of settling. She's terrified of missing something while she was sleeping or working or with someone boring.

This girl is a hair slut. She has been blonde, brunette, redhead, and everything in between. Her denim blue eyes are identical to Finley's, and I cannot tell you how magical it is to have your daughter resemble your best friend. I'm especially glad because Reilly looks amazing in all hats and sunglasses.

This girl has been through horrible, unimaginable betrayals and injustices. But to hear her speak of them, you would think it was all just a downer episode of a romantic sitcom.

This girl is Penny Lane. She is Miranda Hobbes. She's little pieces of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. She's the female Jim Halpert, and she can do that Jack Sparrow ring-clinky thing on her fingers.

This girl is my buoy. She hoists me up. She supports me. She has been my shoulder to cry on for everything sad, although I think she's only seen me cry three or four times because she always knows how to make me laugh.

She knows every one of my secrets.

She was there when I chopped my hair off, and has been there since it grew back. She was the first person I called when I was pregnant. She is by far the most protective of Finley's relatives, including me.

This girl is as much my family as my own siblings and parents. Weird to think of it, but her blood runs through Finley and her blood ran through me.

I wish for Reilly a thousand light-hearted nights like we had.

I wish for her to never feel lonely, but to always remember there will be a song somewhere on her iPod that will make her better.

I wish for her to find love, and to keep on being love.

I wish Paris for her.

I love this girl.

Happy birthday, beyotch.

And happy ten years.

(And I really wish for those guys at Starbucks to stop thinking we're a lesbian couple, because Finley actually does look like she would be our child if we had made her.)