You gotta have friends

Today is what some decidedly more breezy types would consider a “nice” day, so I decided, against my usual better judgment, to venture out, if only up to my roof, to see what all the hub and bub is about. I’d heard so much about the sun and the gorgeousness that it tends to bring to one’s day, so I figured what the hell, why not go outside and answer the question, “Why all the fuss?” So I indulged the fancy before it passed like oh so many fancies have been known to do when left in my charge.
Well, I must say that I still don’t understand all the brouhaha.
Even though I was in the finest of company — paperback incarnations of three of my best friends (David Sedaris, Fran Leibowitz, and Dorothy Parker); my cell phone (turned on to actively avoid all calls should anyone actually be foolish enough to call during the day when they know I’m ever so busy avoiding human contact); my digital camera (in the event I was feeling particularly sparky and adorable and wished to commemorate my experience to prove to a suspicious public that I do sometimes venture outside); one small notebook and one larger one; a favorite pen; a spritely, entirely too colorful beach towel that I would smack for its perkiness if it somehow “morphed” into human form; broken pieces of a Happy Herbert’s extra dark pretzel; and, yes, my dearest and bestest friendest of all, a large, sexy glass of iced coffee, complete with clinky spoon — I still couldn’t fully engage myself in the business of being outside, and spent most of my time wondering how much longer I had to spend there before I could consider my attempt a valiant one.
As it turns out, valiance takes only an hour. Tops.
Yes, an hour was about as long as I could stand knowing that, 59 minutes earlier, my tender, shapely bare foot had made contact with a particularly obstinate piece of old chewing gum that would, 61 minutes later, compel me to stand in the bathtub, fully dressed (if yoga pants and a tank top constitute full dress, which, believe me, does, when you’re spending 23 hours indoors), in order to remove not only it but a considerable accumulation of delightful roof filth. True, I could have worn my kicky little slides to prevent any such occurrence, but hey, I’d felt extraordinarily footloose and fancy-free and had decided to play bohemian roof reader, knowing, of course, that such a departure from my real “self” would result in my saying, “Never again”.
So here I am, back inside, safe and sound, among the same friends who accompanied me to the roof. A phone call to return. Coffee to swill. Clean feet. And perhaps a little tan.
At the very least, however, I reacquainted myself with Fran, whom I befriended many years ago, and who reminded me, once again, why she deserves to be placed on the pedestal that is my desk, along with my vaunted iced coffee:

All God’s children are not beautiful. Most of God’s children are, in fact, barely presentable. The most common error made in matters of appearance is the belief that one should disdain the superficial and let the true beauty of one’s soul shine through. If there are places on your body where this is a possibility, you are not attractive &#151 you are leaking.

I am in exceedingly good company.
P.S. For those of you who had hoped I’d include the Bette Midler song that contains the words in the title of this entry, well, I suggest you jump off the roof I just vacated. Thank you.