Julie got engaged last August, but she's putting off the wedding until next year so her German Shepherd can get big enough to walk her down the aisle. While that poor girl was slacking on her dream, I took it upon myself to achieve one of mine—more specifically, to tackle the mystery of the kiwi. The only aisle in my way was air-conditioned, sweet-smelling, and restocked daily. One or two mushy fruits as opposed to rows and rows of mushy, sweating relatives? Yes, please!
Hannah is expecting a beautiful baby boy! Well, we don't know if he's beautiful yet, but Hannah said she's not taking chances with the father's genetics and asked us to speak it into existence. When I was digging through carefully prepared displays in search of the perfect kiwi, I didn't have to worry about taking chances. No risk of a big nose or a future receding hairline when picking out a fruit, Hannah! You stick it in your fridge and use it within four weeks. Little to no commitment necessary!
Cameron recently became a father to kittens, and he's already trying to give them away. “My cat is a man-whore,” he said, giving me a lovely mental image. “If you take one of these kittens, don't ever let them find out where they came from. Seek out shock treatment if you have to.” I can't imagine keeping a loved one from knowing or understanding their background. My kiwi was a one-of-a-kind Whole Foods native, and I would've told it that without shame.
Ryan proposed to his boyfriend of six years in the parking lot of a White Castle. He said he wanted his fiancé-to-be to feel “royal,” and proceeded to hide the ring in a greasy cheeseburger. His boyfriend then swallowed the ring because he “couldn't taste the difference,” so I guess they're waiting for it to pass before announcing anything on Facebook. I didn't even wait sixty seconds before posting a photo of my ravishing, ripe discovery on Instagram. It had twenty-two likes before the dissection. (My post-dissection photos were taken down due to graphic content.)
Shireen just had a baby girl with blonde hair and big brown eyes. I was visiting the other day, and the baby (named Trenda) spit up all over me. Shireen chuckled and said, “It means she likes you!” My kiwi and I had more of a one-way street going. I didn't need any kind of validation from it—there was a mutual understanding that one of us was going to cut open the other. This made the process much easier.
Xavier is going to propose once his girlfriend graduates from medical school. She wants to become a brain surgeon, which Xavier told me will be so convenient once the in-laws start needing lobotomies. Not to brag or anything, but I highly doubt the precision with which I sliced that kiwi open could be achieved by any doctor. If Xavier's into women who pay six figures to learn how to hold a knife still, that's his deal.
Finally, newlywed Nazeema is currently on her honeymoon in a country that she can't pronounce or point out on a map. I can pronounce, “kiwi.” Could probably point one out, too, but you'd have to zoom in a lot.
In all seriousness, I'm very happy for my friends. They're going through amazing changes, and that's got to be exciting or rewarding or some similar adjective.
But you know what truly brings a smile to my face?
When I sliced that flawless kiwi in half, it didn't matter that I was unimpressed. I felt much better than I would've felt being a bridesmaid or a godmother or someone—anyone—you'd make plans with on a Friday night. I felt a rush that was way more satisfying than love or compassion or even friendship (which at this point is pretty much a fad).
And you know what I realized? Anyone can make out on a fancy island or spend thousands on a loop of metal or alienate cats or lactate. But it takes someone special to carefully select and cut open fruit for the sake of discovery. And those people are incredibly hard to come by.
So to all my “friends” and “loved ones” and “husbands” and “wives” and “happy people”: congratulations and best wishes! But more importantly, you're welcome.
You're very, very welcome.