Bubble of Us June 21, 2007

The Publicist and I live vicariously through each other.  
 
She tries on my ring, inquires about wedding plans. I try on her fancy shoes, inquire about that actor she made out with last week. 
 
Our respective lives fascinate each other.  
 
There was a time, in London, in 2002, when our paths were parallel. We recognized something familiar in each other those first few days in South Kensington and our friendship evolved fast, a whirlwind of short skirts and expensive drinks bought by strangers and secrets told in backseats of black cabs at 4am and late-night Indian take-out on my bed as we drunk-dialed our friends back in “the States.”   
 
That experience bonded us for life, even if our paths now have split.  
 
She lives for work. “Balls to the wall, Clink, like how I used to be about partying.” She’s at the top of her game at a very young age but all that success comes with consequences. Namely, not having an existence apart from work. “Sometimes, I just sleep on my couch in the office. It’s just easier.”  
 
I envy her life, I do. In a way. I envy the glamour and excitement. I envy the fact that she goes to great parties (“I need a dress for the Emmys…”), has her own assistant, makes out with actors - like the most recent one, who insisted on sucking on her elbows. She always has great stories to tell, stories that we used to swap together, stories that really only come from her end nowadays. 
 
She envies my life. She envies the guy I’ve found, whom she adores, and the inherent stability that comes with finding someone perfect for you. She envies the fact that I have a great job but I can leave that great job, with a clear conscience, every day at 6pm. She envies that I get to plan for a wedding, while her binders full of dresses and floral arrangements ripped out of magazines remain hidden under her bed. She envies that I have time to go to the gym, or get pitchers of sangria with friends after work.  
 
Neither of us envy in a green-eyed monster, bitter sort of way. It’s more of, as I said, a fascination. Tell me, tell me, tell me is what we’re always saying to each other and when we’re told we shake our heads and smile and say “only you.”  
 
I spontaneously asked her to be my bridesmaid last night. We were perched at a bar, five or six drinks into the tab. We had just assessed Helena Christensen’s rear as it bypassed us (“she needs a sandwich”) and Josh Hartnett’s straw hat as he sat across the room (“he’s gotta be balding, all those hats…”). We were laughing and take photos of each other and each other’s cleavage, to compare. We’re both D’s but “different D’s” and she told her client, a famous television actor, when he joined us earlier. (I’ll admit it, I snuck into the bathroom to call my fiancé to tell him that Famous Television Actor, star of our favorite show, congratulated us on our engagement and the size of the rock.) 
 
Where was I? Oh right. So there we were, in the Bubble of Us that was created in 2002 and is impossible to penetrate when we’re together.  
 
“So, this wedding…black tie? What should I wear? How about that dress I wore to the SAG Awards?” 
 
I just smiled to myself. Because, duh, she’d be wearing what the rest of my bridesmaids would be wearing. She just didn’t know it yet. 
 
“What’s that smile for?” Busted. 
 
“Oh, nothing.” Except, I couldn’t keep it to myself. I couldn’t wait to make it formal and special and accompanied by a gift basket including a hand-written note about how much she means to me and piles of her favorite cookies. I blurted out the question. And then we both cried. 
 
“OF COURSE. Omigod. Of course.”  
 
We so rarely get to see each other, she is so rarely on this coast. Doing it in person - even as impromptu as it was - gave us the opportunity to see the other’s face.  
 
We left the bar just before closing and hopped into a cab, opting to sit close together in the middle of the backseat, the sides of our heads pressed together. 
 
“I love you, Clinky.” 
 
“I love you too, Publicist.”  
 
She once said, to a man who approached me at a bar a few years ago, “She’s lovely. And smart. And the most genuine person you’ll ever meet. And you’d be lucky to be a part of that.”  
 
And all I can say, as I reminded her of that story last night, is “ditto.” And also, I’m so fucking happy she’ll be the one to calm me down before I walk down the aisle (just as she calms me down in ways no one else can while flying) in a white dress towards the man who is so lucky - and happy - to be “part of that.”  
 
So, my first bridesmaid. Asked, accepted. One down, six more to go.