Jake: Lilo, Don’t be dark.
I glared across the table at Jake. Nobody tells Lindsay Schuette when she can and cannot be dark. Darkness was cascading in on me from all sides, I was officially in stage two of a non-Gilbey’s induced brown out, and there was no Narnia in sight.
Carlee: Linds, Anna’s really happy. Seriously. Stop being rank.
I shifted my glare and attempted to increase my “please feel sorry for me” pout. If there was one thing I was assured of it was Anna’s happiness. After all, it was her wedding day … best day of her life … “their” new beginning … the day that causes the end of the dreaded “You’re 27? Not married? What’s wrong with you?” for millions of women, but life as I knew it was suddenly coming to an abrupt and upsetting end. Had I really been so caught up in the “magic” of my best friend’s bridal bliss that I had not taken even a full minute to wallow in the despair of what this day truly meant? And this wasn’t the standard single girl, “I’m so sad, I didn’t catch the bouquet, nobody wants to marry me, I’m going to cry and bite my pillow until the tragedy of my singleness disappears …” That wasn’t it at all. This was a deeper sense of sadness … a more profound sense of injustice and wrongdoing. Had Anna honestly not taken any time to reflect on what this new commitment was going to do to me … to us? Not only had my perpetually single friend gone and gotten married, she also had the nerve to marry a man that I happen to adore, therefore dashing any hope of a quick and nasty annulment. And now, sitting at a bistro table on Orcas Island, in a post nuptial haze, drinking tall boys, and listening to a bad jazz with two married couples, I was suddenly painfully aware of the presence Anna’s absence was creating in my life.
The five of us (The Couples and I) had just narrowly escaped an epic post-wedding throw down at the local dive bar between the bride’s cousins from Cleveland, Aretha and September*, who despite being previously involved in serious relationships, had simultaneously decided to pursue a one-night stand with the best man, “The Wad**” following his sappy, yet touching toast to his brother, whom he noted now had a new best friend that was forever going to change the most important relationship in his life …
Taking a sip of my PBR and reflecting on the truth in The Wad’s suddenly provocative toast, I began to panic. Not only had his relationship with his brother forever changed, I had, without realizing it or mourning it, lost my best friend. By absolute accident, I had been completely thrilled for her. In a vain attempt to keep the nausea down, I let my mind drift …
Anna and I had met six years before. In a venture only a much younger and
far less jaded Lindsay Schuette would attempt, I had followed a boy to Skagway, Alaska figuring that moving to a remote town of only 800 (who were mostly male) would increase my odds of nailing down a relationship. After a terrifying day of small (when we say small, we mean mini-van sized) aircraft travel, I walked into my new home and was greeted by Anna. Two people could not have seemed more opposite to the naked eye. I was a constantly self-conscious cookie cutter, Abercrombie wearing, overly bleached, 21-year-old, who insisted on drinking wine coolers out of a straw. Anna on the other hand, was independent, stylish, confrontational, brilliant, and unbelievably sure of who she was and what she wanted. Where she was pessimistic, I was optimistic, she drank beer and shot whiskey, I could hardly stomach an entire Blue Hawaiian, she would wake up ten minutes before we needed to leave the house, throw a hat on and go, I needed an hour and a half minimum to make sure that my hair was curled, my mascara was generously coated on, and my tiara was perfectly placed. (Yes, I wore a tiara … I don’t want to talk about it) That first summer, it seemed we had nothing in common except an affinity for animal associations and small dogs.
But somehow, throughout the following years, despite our many differences, Anna and I became joined at the soul. She became my greatest cheerleader, my protector, my provoker, my confidant, my travel guide, and my best friend. We laughed together, we laughed AT each other, we cried, we danced when no one else was dancing, and I knew with unprecedented confidence that as long as I had Anna in my corner, I was safe. Together, we lived in smaller than orphanage-sized spaces, drove buses full of old people, climbed mountains, dreamt of life anywhere but where we were, formed campaigns, and built parade floats. We fought boys (usually verbally), dissected my failed relationships, accidentally killed one of Stimey’s goons under the house, frolicked on glaciers, suntanned on a cloudy days, stayed inside listening to records on sunny days, cruised Cape Horn, and browned out on the lawn of 14th and State. We survived two weeks in an interior cruise ship cabin (a true feat), led dance parties through diesel spills, and have correctly predicted the end of hundreds of reality TV shows. Together, we wandered the streets of South America, ate millions of calories in greasy breakfasts, found out Lance Bass was gay, and for the love of travel, existed on only Siracha and rice crackers.
The fact that we were so incredibly different, and yet found in the other
something completely irreplaceable, built in us a necessity for one another that was rare and profound. She has been the Taylor to my Rachel Zoe, the Oprah to my Gayle, the Courtney Cox to my Jen Aniston, the ALo to my Lilo. When I think of people who have fundamentally aided the formation of the person I am today, Anna ranks at the top. She has known me as completely as someone can know me and has loved me regardless.
In rare moments where Anna and I fought, we fought like I have never fought with anyone. Some would claim that they’ve seen me mad, but if you weren’t at Moe’s Frontier Tavern on that fateful evening in July of 2006 to witness the verbal thrashing between ALo and Lilo over a brown vintage Moe’s windbreaker, then you’ve missed out on how deep rage can truly go. It is the only time in known history that I have ruined designer anything to prove a point. Just minutes after I had stormed into my house and thrown myself down on my bed in a frenzy of despair, after walking through the streets of Skagway, Alaska in a torrential downpour, Anna walked in to find me sobbing uncontrollably. She sat down beside me.
ALo: Angel, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to fight with you.
Lilo: No, I’m sorry. Brown is really more your color.
ALo: I know it is, but I am really sorry. I can’t believe I said all those things.
Lilo: Look at my Uggs.
ALo: Oh angel. What have I done?
Enter soggy embraces and ugly Oprah crying.
But now, this was all over. After all, Anna had just gotten married. She had someone new to laugh with, someone new to fight with, someone new to cry with, and someone new to dance with. Everything was going to change.
Carlee: Lilo. Seriously. Stop being dark.
My mind snapped back to reality.
I glared at Carlee again, then realizing rather than giving me pity points, she was about to get out the mace, I got up from the table, and in honor of my newly married friend, who would dance with me regardless of who was watching, I danced … and danced and danced … to the cover music of an awkward jazz guitarist in a small bistro on Orcas Island. Finally drunk enough, some local hippies took pity on me and joined in. My misery slowly subsided in a fog of interpretive intensity and I accepted that this was my future … dancing alone, laughing alone, reading celebrity gossip alone, being rank alone, being brilliant alone, obsessing over Bravo television alone, and pondering the issues that come with having a collared sea otter and a diapered monkey as imaginary pets, alone. It was my fate and my future to simply figure out how to survive an existence without Anna … because after all, she was married. Everything was different. I left the bar exhausted, walked home, and crawled into my recently vacated twin sized bed.
The next morning I woke up to my phone ringing in my ear … “What the … eight o’clock … who is calling me at … wow … is it seriously morning already …”
Groggy and confused I answered. 
“hello …”
Anna’s voice, angry.
“Did you throw away my marriage license yesterday?”
“No.” I only wish I had thought of that. “Why do you ask?”
“We can’t find it.”
Long pause. Then, laughter.
“OH. MY. GAW. Did you hear about Aretha and September …”
“NO! what happened ….”
As my best friend, my cheerleader, my confidant, my travel guide, my protector, my provoker, and the only person who will read trashy magazines out loud to me when I can’t sleep began to recall the story of the sisters from Cleveland who woke half of Orcas Island at 2AM after both going after “The Wad” in his hotel room, my heart and mind were flooded by a genuine peace. Maybe a quick and nasty annulment wasn’t what I wanted, after all. Perhaps all I needed was a reality check, some concrete reassurance that there are ties that bind deeper than lace and diamonds and flowers, that regardless of circumstances, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, for single or for married, some things would never change.
*Names changed to protect the guilty.
**Name not changed.
I love a guarantee. While to many I may seem to adhere to a more flighty side of life, deep down Lindsay Schuette truly enjoys the stability of a guarantee. If I were a man, I would shop at the Men’s Wearhouse. Why? I would like the way I looked. After all, they guarantee it. As a woman, it compels me to shop at Nordstrom. There is a beautiful security in knowing that if the unthinkable happens, and those perfect True Religion’s and I don’t work out for whatever reason, I can guarantee that the salesperson in T.B.D. will be crying right alongside me; her at the loss of commission, me at the loss of something true and beautiful. And finally, it is why when I’m trying to convince you of something I’ll often use phrases like, “well … the bottom line is …” or “the reality is …” or “at the end of the day …” I offer up certainties to people like lollipops at the bank.
“Sería un honor para usted a matar a nuestro pollo.” 
“No Lucy …. We’re not playing this game tonight. Please, please go to bed.” Pat Schuette, a football playing, Carhartt wearing, giant of a man’s man looked down at me with exasperated, tired eyes. “Please Lindsay … Go back upstairs. I can’t do this tonight.” I looked back at him with frightened tears streaming down my cheeks and stated fact, “I can’t go to bed, Daddy … What if the robbers come for me tonight.”
“I have told you these things so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love one another.” (John 15:11)
Conversion … Belief … Faith … Words used to describe something bigger than me, bigger than my life, bigger than anything I’ll ever understand. A friend and I were talking one day and in the midst of our conversation decided that these words aren’t static, that they can’t be … That we’re constantly converting, constantly believing, and constantly trying to find the faith to make it through another day. If you know me at all, there’s a good chance I’ve asked you to name the top five things you believe in … It is a question that has been taken seriously by some and by others as a total joke, but one that has helped me to understand people in a new light. After this particular conversation, I sat down at my favorite coffee shop and wrote out, declaration after declaration, what I truly believe in … A list that (surprise, surprise) didn’t include my standby beliefs in great denim and good skincare. What I wanted was a comprehensive collection of those things that I know to be absolutely true at the age of twenty five.