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As I twisted and turned last night, I pondered the conversation that I had earlier in the day.

Overheard in my basement: I have way more responsibility than my peers. That’s because you don’t have any friends whose parents are divorced. Bullshit!

But then, later, as I showered, I thought through my entire list of friends, in alpha order as I pictured them on my cell phone. NOT ONE.

Then the obvious one hit me the hardest: The only person in my life who also comes from divorced parents is my boyfriend.

Hmmmm. What does that say?

Is there some divide? Am I missing some chip that you all have? It’s a weird feeling when you think about it. All these people in my life (and I exclude those folks that I don’t know well enough to even know their parent’s status) come from married homes. Stability. Caring dads who give their daughter’s teenage dates a hard time. Guys who actually mow lawns, and change oil. A second income that helps to set up the kids future, a second person to hand out advice or encouragement. This is what I picture it must be life. This is also, very truly, a summary description of the latest family sitcom.

Then I started to think about this in detail… What about that has defined me? What about being from a “broken” home makes me broken? What is my–dare I even whisper it?–fault?

Because admit it, whether you want to admit it or not, you have them. And the best part? Your friends, your good ones anyways, (this may be a shock to you so please sit down) have your number. They have it. They know and probably joke about it to your other friends. Because lets see, we all have the conversational narcissist, the douche who never (conveniently) brings their wallet to the bar/restaurant, the loser with no license due to too many DUIs, the young mom who does nothing but talk about breastmilk, the lazy friend who never charges their cell phone so its always dead and they have to borrow yours, the friend who borrows your nicest shit and never gives it back, etc. You could go all day with this but that’s not really my point. We can pinpoint each other’s fault’s because we’ve been there, done that, and we don’t really care either. At this point, you’re either in or you’re out. We’re too old to play games of careful selection. And we’re all pretty much in. I don’t imagine anyone reading this blog having less than 20 in their circle of friends. So see? People don’t hate you. You have a flaw. More than one probably. And it’s ok by us. We accept it.

But when I thought about this post last night, I thought about naming all the possible fatal flaws I had, the ones I imagine my friends talk about when they joke about me. And then I thought about the repercussions of doing so. Would they (the one or 4 readers that I know of) read this and feel validated? Yup, she’s that girl! Now we all know it and it’s out there on the table and when I see her in person, it will be right there on both our faces. Because let’s be real about it, it’s mostly on the table with your other friends… but you are just one degree out of the loop on it. They may even tease you about your flaw, but if you’re as tuned into yourself as I am, you will know they are not really joking, you cheap bastard, so pay up on the tab.

And so you’ve been caught out. Surrender to that.

And it’s not really so bad, right? I mean, assuming your flaw isn’t one that slowly drives away all your close, meaningful relationships. You’re good to keep going as you are.

Because no matter if you come from a broken home, or a broken heart, or a perfectly unbroken place, you’re you.

And if I didn’t want it, I’d just stop answering your damn texts.