People, who know me, know that I am usually surrounded by men. I have one girlfriend. The rest? All guys, all the time.

I am not comfortable with women. It’s not because I am in constant competition with them, or that I am jealous of them, I just have nothing to say. I don’t talk about my haircut, my new shirt, the new fall colours, waxing, etc etc etc ad nauseum.

Every move, every gesture, every word is constantly evaluated and judged. Then found wanting. Snide remarks are never made in the company of women. To your face they will be supportive and loving, but if you happen to turn your back, you may just find a knife there.

With men, it’s very very different. They think you’re being stupid? They’ll tell you, right away. Your place is a mess? Just move the junk from the couch to the floor and you’re good to go. There are no secrets, no recriminations.

I could not have girlfriends over if my place was a mess. I could not have girlfriends over if I wasn’t dressed appropriately. The spiteful comments would be enough to demolish a lesser person.

My best friend is a guy. He knows more about me than any other person on this planet. I’ve cried, I’ve laughed, I’ve ridiculed, failed, excelled, got addicted, kicked, all in front of him. He has always been there, and has never faulted me for my mistakes.

Can I say the same about some of the girlfriends I’ve had?

No.

Sometimes I watch Sex and the City and am jealous of their easy camaraderie. But then I’m also jealous of their shoes. Sometimes I wonder what I’m missing by not having a group of girlfriends to shop, eat, gossip with.

But then I remember that none of my guys friends would let me buy something hideous merely because it was “stylish” or so that they could look better than me; wouldn’t begrudge me my dessert instead of dinner; and wouldn’t gossip about me, and I am so much happier for whatever twist of fate led me to this wonderful group.

Of men.

{9:45 a.m.}