Reaffirmed
No response, Aug 22, 2009It’s Sunday morning, early, and my alarm goes off. Usually the weekend is a sanctuary from alarms, schedules, deadlines, yet of late Sunday mornings have become a morning to be up, fresh and out the door. Admittedly, it’s only by 8am, not 7am – but after a Saturday usually full of a myriad of activities and people, Sunday mornings can feel every bit as bad as Mondays. The reward, however, is somewhat greater than on a Monday. While the start of the work week greets me with late emails from the previous Friday, a backlog of work to clear and new expectations for a new week, today greets me instead with the promise of a laugh, a coffee, and invariably one reference to a donkey.
Sunday mornings I’ve taken to catching up with my Best Man, my former housemate, my partner in crime for a good couple of years back then. Craig and I met when I was still living at home, and we shared two houses together before he finally got married. What were many nights of late night BF1942, Team Fortress, NFS: Hot Pursuit or slurpee runs are now replaced by both of us a bit more grown up. We’re both married, both working more than full time, him as he builds his own business from the ground up, me as I juggle a job and my own business, and both dog owners. The usual busyness of first couple of years of marriage meant we didn’t see each other anywhere near as much as we’d hoped or expected, compounded by the growing distance as I moved to each subsequent house. Things have changed now, though. Beth is starting to get to know them a bit more, and we’ve decided that making the time is worth the effort. Along with dinners, mini-golf and trips chasing a mythical pizza beast with our wives, Craig and I meet every week for some Man Time.
This week I’m running late, however. I bolt down a bowl of oats before leaving the house, forgetting that a stop for cash is needed. The drive to Camberwell is surprising pleasant, considering I do it five of the other six days each week. Thankfully Sunday mornings don’t exist in Melbourne – the day magically begins at 10:30am – and the traffic is non-existent. I choose not to brave fighting for a car park, and instead pay the dollar that will guarantee me 45mins of uninterrupted parking right out front of the cafe we meet at – incidentally one of the only cafes open, even if it is one of the busiest inner-suburban shopping strips.
Inside, Craig sits waiting for me in his riding gear. His motorbike doesn’t face the same parking restrictions that a full size car does, and he’s made it in before me. He too was running late – though he got there closer to our posted time than I did. Our pizza hunting the night before took it out of us, methinks. Dropping keys and sunglasses on the table, we head to the counter to order. Usually it’s me that orders a full breakfast, and him a pot of tea. This week however, the tables have turned, and in a slightly awkward fashion, we go about the process of ordering my decaf latte and his pancake stack. A laugh is shared – I’m only late because I chose for the first time to eat my breakfast first.
Promptly our hot drinks are delivered to the table; Craig’s pancake stack follows a few minutes later. As we catch up on the week that has been, my mind wanders and I realise how thankful I am to be sitting across the table from him. He’s been a part of my life for many years now, and it felt like we were doing ourselves and our friendship a disservice in the previous few years. We’ve been through a bit together, and know things about each other that no one else save our respective wives know. Reaffirming this friendship has been something I’ve wanted to do for the last three years. In light of things beginning to change, I’m glad this has been one of the first things to.
