I have this friend Jessica. I met her in Second Grade. We instantly tried to one up each other with nonsense. Within ten minutes, we were best friends and totally ruled the school.
We spent most of our early years getting into trouble (minor trouble, we were sneaky and our mothers were up to their own ridiculous hi-jinx, like running naked through locker rooms during their kid's swimming birthday party--seriously).
But what we really did best, was laugh. At everything. At everyone. And Jessica's laugh, it is infectious. It is a gift--something that I hear in my head when days are tough or when people are just idiots. I hear it when I have the choice of throwing a fit (which I am naturally prone to do) or just making fun of it and laughing my ass off.
This shared laughter we inherited from our mothers. When they ran naked (yes, naked. I am still traumatized.), they laughed their bare asses off. When a skunk sprayed my back porch and the smell was noxious, my Mom and Mrs. D. laughed too--through bandanas tied around their faces and with hands covered in tomatoes. Our mother's laughed it up so much that I was certain they were drunk.
This past week, Jessica finally met my two girls. And I took this picture:
I love this picture. You can practically hear the giggles, the hysteria, the pure ridiculousness of moment. It is a miracle, these giggles. It is a legacy, passed from mother to child, from best friend to best friend.
And when my ridiculously enormous dog finally gets sprayed by a skunk and I am outside with my face wrapped in a bandana, cleaning noxious odor and considering torching my home--
I will just whip this photo out of my underpants and giggle until I pee.