When you’re young, you find friends based on common interests—or what you perceive to be things in common. We dance together, we play a sport together, we like to smoke pot and listen to The Wall together.
When you’re, ahem, older—and a parent—you find friends through your kids.
I got lucky, and found Monica.
On paper (and when you see us in person), we don’t go together. She’s a very loud Polish-Russian Jew from Brooklyn. She’s in pharma sales—yes, she crushes it—is superhumanly athletic, loves LoveShackFancy, and is a good New York City driver.
I am Jewish, but none of those other things.
What drew me to Monica was her genuineness. Her authenticity. Her willingness to be no one but herself.
Anytime I introduce Monica to anyone, I say, “This bitch told off Spike Lee.” Because I am endlessly entertained by her shenanigans—and I think everyone else will be too.
Long story short, Monica was sitting behind Spike Lee at a Knicks game. She’s a Nets fan. Yada yada yada. Words were exchanged, and Spike Lee called her a “yuppie.” After which Monica loudly re-educated Mr. Lee on what it really means to be from Brooklyn. The creative ways in which she used the word fuck should be studied like Shakespeare.
But that’s a secondhand account.
In a moment of bravery, I booked a surfing lesson. In September. On the East Coast. No one wanted to come with me. Monica was game.
First time on a board—she gets up. More than once. I was surprised, but when I did a deep think on it, it made sense.
Surfing (IMHO) is about being present, being real. You can’t bravado your way up on a board. You can’t fake it.
Monica never fakes it.