Adult Friendships Need Different expectations

Maybe this is an unpopular opinion, but at 61 years old, “ride-or-die friendship” is no longer in my job description.

In fact, I think ride-or-die is a phrase that belongs to high school, college, and those years when you’re a young single mom trying to survive life together.

Back then, your friends were your village. You talked every day. You knew every detail of each other’s lives. You’d show up with wine, tissues, a casserole, bail money, or all four if necessary.

But somewhere between raising four children, surviving decades of marriage, running a business, becoming a grandmother, and figuring out where I left my reading glasses for the third time today (they were on my head, by the way), life changed.

My ride-or-die became my family. My husband. My children. Their spouses. My grandchildren.

That’s my ride-or-die crew.

Those are the people I’m building memories with, spending holidays with, worrying about, celebrating with, and showing up for at 2 a.m. if needed.

That’s not because I don’t value my friendships. I absolutely do. I love my friends. I enjoy lunch with them. I enjoy talking with them. I enjoy hearing about their lives.

But friendship and ride-or-die are not the same thing.

I’m not putting a friend’s problems ahead of my family, and I’m certainly not taking on another adult’s financial burdens as my responsibility. I can care about someone without carrying their life on my back.

At this stage of life, I’m not looking to take on the role of caretaker, fixer, or emotional lifeline for another adult.

I know that sounds harsh, but let’s be honest.

Some people are perpetually in crisis. Every month is an emergency. Every week is a disaster. Every conversation is a complaint. Every solution has a reason it won’t work.

At some point, that’s not a rough season.

That’s just their life.

And while I can listen, encourage, and support, I cannot become a full-time member of someone else’s rescue team.

The truth is that once you marry, that person becomes your ride-or-die. Together you build a family of your own and your emotional energy becomes valuable.

You start paying attention to where it goes.

You realize that every hour spent trying to fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed is an hour you could have spent with your spouse, your children, your grandchildren, your hobbies, or simply enjoying the peaceful life you’ve worked hard to build.

I don’t need a ride-or-die friend.

I need friends who can meet me for lunch and pay their own tab. Friends who can laugh. Friends who can celebrate good things. Friends who occasionally complain because they’re human, but who also know how to enjoy life. Friends who understand that friendship is part of my life—not the center of it.

At this point, I’m not building my world around friendships anymore.

I’m maintaining friendships around the world I’ve already built.

And that world is pretty full.

It includes a husband I’ve shared decades with, four children, their spouses, grandchildren who think I’m far more entertaining than I actually am, and a life I’ve spent years creating.

That’s my ride-or-die crew.

Everyone else gets a valued place in my life, but they’re not sitting in the driver’s seat.

That position has already been filled.

The Hallways Full of Faces I Love

Some people collect trophies. They have shelves full of plaques, awards, certificates, and shiny little reminders that say, Look what I did. Look what I accomplished.

And don’t get me wrong, that’s wonderful. Hard work deserves to be honored.

But me? I collect faces.

My trophy case isn’t in an office. It isn’t behind glass. It doesn’t need dusting with a special cloth or polishing so it shines just right.

I show my faces off in a hallway in my home.

It’s lined with family pictures — babies with toothless grins, kids with messy hair, school pictures with questionable bangs, holiday photos where at least one person looks annoyed, and those beautiful, imperfect snapshots that tell the story of us.

Every house I’ve lived in, I’ve made room for that hallway.

Because those faces are my awards for my life.

They are proof of love, time, laughter, chaos, growth, and survival. They are my pride and joy. They are the legacy that keeps getting bigger, louder, and better with every new picture added.

Some people display medals.

I display my people.

And honestly, I think a wall of faces  is better than any trophy case..

OKC Thunder Season Is Not Good for My Anxiety

I have come to the conclusion that I am not emotionally equipped to be a sports fan.

People think watching a basketball game is relaxing. Those people have clearly never spent three hours pacing their living room while their team is down by 18 points with six minutes left in the fourth quarter.

I don’t watch Thunder games.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

What I actually do is sit in another room pretending I’m not watching the game while constantly checking my phone every thirty-seven seconds.

“How are they doing?”

“Who’s ahead?”

“How much time is left?”

“Why did I look?”

My husband will be sitting in the living room watching the game while I’m wandering around the house like a nervous hostage negotiator.

Sometimes I’ll turn the TV on. Then the other team immediately goes on an 8-0 run.

Obviously that’s my fault. 

So I turn it off.

Then the Thunder score six straight points.

You’re welcome, Oklahoma City.

By playoff season, my anxiety reaches levels that should probably require medical supervision.

Every possession feels life-changing. Every missed free throw feels personal.

Every review by the referees takes approximately seventeen years off my life expectancy.

And don’t even get me started on Game 7.

Game 7 isn’t a basketball game.

Game 7 is a three-hour cardiac stress test disguised as entertainment.

The players look calm.

The coaches look focused.

Meanwhile, I’m over here stress-eating snacks I wasn’t even hungry for and considering whether I should just go to bed and find out the score tomorrow.

I never do.

Because what if they win? Then I miss it.

What if they lose? Then I have to suffer through it in real time with everyone else.

It’s a lose-lose situation.

The worst part is that I know this happens every single year. Every year I tell myself I’m going to be more relaxed. I’m going to enjoy the game. I’m going to remember it’s just basketball.

Then tip-off happens and suddenly I’m one bad possession away from updating my will.

The funny thing is, if the Thunder actually win the championship, I’ll celebrate like I contributed. As if Coach called me personally and said, “Raven, we couldn’t have done this without your pacing, nervous snacking, and refusal to watch the fourth quarter.”

So tonight I’ll be doing what I always do.

Pretending I’m not watching.

Checking the score every thirty-seven seconds.

Blaming myself for every turnover.

Taking credit for every comeback.

And reminding myself that sports are supposed to be fun.

At least that’s what I’ve heard.

Why My Husbands Pants are Full of Holes!

We’ve been looking at floor plans for our new house, and my husband Dennis and I are currently locked in a battle over 200 square feet. Honestly, my nerves are completely fried over it.

To him, it’s just a spare bedroom and a slightly larger pantry. To me, it’s the difference between a peaceful retirement and total domestic chaos. We have 12—yes, twelve—active grandkids who love to sleep over. I desperately need a dedicated zone where they can play, watch TV, and crash without turning the entire house into a toy-filled obstacle course.

Beyond that, I need a craft room. Being retired, having a space for my hobbies isn't a luxury; it’s a survival tactic. Right now, every time Dennis asks me to patch a hole in his pants, I have to drag my heavy sewing machine out of hiding, hook it all up, and commandeer a table. The result? His pants stay drafty a whole lot longer than they should. If the man wants intact trousers, I need a dedicated room for my sewing!

I’m so tired of cramming two completely different needs into one tiny space, or squeezing my craft supplies into a room the size of a broom closet. And let’s be real from a financial standpoint: an extra bedroom makes future resale an absolute breeze.

I agree that we shouldn't spend a fortune more than what we got for our last house, but surely 200 square feet is a small price to pay to save my sanity—and Dennis's wardrobe. I just want this settled so I can finally stop stressing and start packing, planning.