Once in a great while I spring-clean people from my life. I do it for various reasons: hate, sloth, convenience, gross incompatibility, monumental boredom or plain indifference. My friends find it deplorable. They would, of course. But these same friends who kept one eye cocked on my un-friendship broom and who, at one time or other, felt its nudge, know they’ve earned their place. Twenty-five year friendships are hard to undo. Plus, I love them deeply.
As I got older and the friends that I’ve always counted on to drink with me until morning have moved on to sedate dinners and conversations over skinny lattes, I’ve had to find entertainment elsewhere. I discovered that people need not have known me in my embryonic state for me to like, or even feel some sort of affection for them. Perhaps it’s this newly-realized delight or premature Alzheimer’s but I can’t remember when I last used my broom. In fact, I may have misplaced it altogether.
For two weeks now I’ve been wondering if I should replace it. I think I need to start spring cleaning again.
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