Introducing Fridays at Five

I lied. I told my husband I had an evening meeting again. He doesn’t ask questions. He's used to me leaving without explanation while he builds blanket forts in the basement with the kids. This is our life. I took off with a wild, expectant feeling of hope. Ever since my mother left when I was on the verge of puberty, I’ve been collecting moms – at work, at church… just about everywhere I go. It happens easily, as if they are looking for me too – my boyfriend’s mother had no daughters, same with a lady at work who threw my wedding shower and the gal at church who threw my baby shower. When my first daughter was born, a public relations pro who subcontracted work to me learned that I had no parents and insisted that every baby needs two sets of grandparents, so she adopted us. My kids still call her Grandma.

I’ve lost a few mentors in the course of my life; they pulled away because they have kids of their own. My neediness can be cloying, but I have an angle with the lady on the bike - she told me I should be drinking a beer with her instead of coffee on a Friday at 5, so I showed up.

I took a seat in the brewery with an eye on the door and ordered a fruity IPA. The kid who took my order gave me a condescending look, but I didn't care. I like a cold citrus beer on a warm day. It was 5:02 p.m. when she came in, untied the same flowered scarf, and sat at the bar. I noted that she wasn’t looking around like she was meeting someone, so I took the cue to pick up my beer and grab the seat next to her.

“Is this seat open?” I asked. Her face changed when she turned to me, first in surprise then in recognition. “Ah, I see you decided to take my advice!” She smiled as she patted the barstool next to hers. I swiveled the seat and edged onto the stool as I set down my beer. Just then as the bartender appeared, she glanced up with a wink as he said, “citrus IPA, Mrs. Fitz?” She nodded. He turned around to pour the beer and she glanced at my mug. “Don’t let anyone fool you on what’s cool.” I immediately warmed…and realized how lonely I’ve been for someone who understands me. She noticed my smile and cut right to the chase, “So why did you come?”

I was grateful for the shift. I like people who get straight to the point. “My first impression when I met you last week was that I was pissed that you would tell me what I should do. My second thought was that I want to be like you when I grow up. So, I came back to learn what made you…you.”

She received that with a ponderous look. “We haven’t actually met yet.”

I blushed and pushed out my right hand. “Jane Smith,” I offered. Her hand firmly met mine.

“Elizabeth Fitsimmons. But friends call me Liv.” I liked that response and quickly sought clarity, “I take that as permission to call you Liv.” She nodded. I couldn’t help but note the significance of her nickname; she strikes me as someone who knows how to live. Life is not something that happens to her. Seems to me she’s someone who owns her choices, just like she started to own this conversation.

“Tell me about Jane. What makes you drink coffee at 5 in the afternoon?” she launched in. I hesitated. How much do I divulge? Do I play it safe or put all the cards on the table? I decided to go all in. “I had a meeting last week. A dinner meeting. I needed to go into that dinner sober, knowing there would be drinks later. I was strategizing the sale and I was strategizing my life, wishing I were home with my kids,” I confessed.

“Sales,” she piped back. “That’s a lifestyle job for sure. Especially high transaction sales.”

I warmed to the notion that she understands business. I pressed in with more detail. “The higher the digits in the sales price, the greater the stakes,” I answered. “It’s not that I don’t take pride in the product. It’s just that I wonder if it’s worth the sacrifice. My kids hardly see me.”

“How many?” Liv asked.

“Three girls,” I replied. “All old souls. Extremely smart too. The youngest treats me like I’m the child and she’s the mom. Sometimes the monkeys in my head tell me she’s right.”

Liv laughed from her heart. “Mine was the same. She’s learning who she is. Those are fun years. Tough years. Years you can’t get back,” Liv looked down at her beer. I had the feeling these were words of experience.

“Tell me about your children.” I prodded.

“Two. Grown. Married. Boston and Seattle,” she laid out dryly. “Don’t see them much, likely due to the fact that I chose the career I did. We both chose work over family. Now my ex-husband lives in Portugal, my kids are at the ends of the earth and I’m here drinking beer with you.”

I pressed in. “What would you do differently if you were my age?”

“Go home,” she deadpanned point blank. “Spend the rest of the evening with your kids.”

Boom. Ask a straight question, get a straight answer. I swallowed the end of my beer and picked up my purse. “You're right. I'm off to Narnia, but I'd like to talk more. Can I meet you here next week? The kids have a sleepover with friends.”

?Liv looked me directly in the eyes, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

?I left a ten on the counter and said good night.

?Liv said, “Don’t listen to the monkeys.”

?I smiled and walked out.

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