Do You Know Who Your Golden Girls Are?

When a heterosexual man meets a woman for the first time, chances are he will, consciously or subconsciously, judge her approachability, her attractiveness and her potential for a great romp in the sack. If he’s a more sensitive guy, he might also try to gauge whether she’d make a good wife or mother. But when a heterosexual woman meets another woman for the first time, she will judge her ability to be a good friend…and her potential as a post-retirement roommate in a split-level ranch house in Miami.

My closest pals don’t know that I’ve already designated which of them will be the Rose and Blanche to my Dorothy, God forbid I’m a widow when it comes time for me to trade my stilettos for orthopedic shoes. (As a neurotic, native New Yorker, I allow myself to play the “God Forbid…” game on occasion.) And I have several back-ups in mind, in case my top roomie picks are unavailable by then—that is, if they are still married, living in a nursing home, or otherwise, ahem, checked out. One of the chosen ladies, like the Rose character, has a heart of gold, a slightly airy temperament and, most important, an endless supply of wacky childhood stories. The other is a sophisticated city gal whom I can definitely imagine evolving into a fun-loving geriatric sexpot, persuading everyone in the house to kick off their fuzzy slippers and venture out to a local senior-center mixer. She’s the kind of woman who might even, at the end of the night, bring one of those horny old geezers back to her room at the ranch house. (Don’t be shocked; Viagra is creating a new generation of horny old geezers.)

(I should, at this time, state for the record that whether or not my mother would move in with us and reprise Estelle Getty’s role as Sophia Petrillo is yet to be determined, but highly dependent on whether she can stop ending every other sentence with the words, “Oh well, that’s the story.” Plus, since she’s been on a health kick, my mother doesn’t make meatballs nearly as often as she should, nor does she tell a dirty joke as well as Sophia. Mom, you’ll have to work on those all-important skills before you are invited to reside with us ladies.)

But I bring up the Golden Girls phenomenon because it’s becoming clear that my female friends are occupying a more crucial role in my life than ever before. Because the kids are getting older and needing me less, there’s suddenly more time to spend with friends whose schedules are similarly freeing up. Don’t get me wrong, I love date nights with my husband and snuggling up on the couch with him to watch a good movie. But getting together with girlfriends at least once a week enables me to do things my husband would disapprove of—like drinking frufru cocktails with tiny umbrellas—and to discuss topics that would nauseate him. Like the feminist power of the new Eve Ensler play, and which Pilates moves combat jiggly underarms, and everything we’d like to do to Ryan Gosling if given the opportunity.

Over the years, you acquire all types of friends. High school and college pals seek out one another for their supportive qualities, such as their willingness to hold your hair back as you throw up into a frat-house toilet. Then you accumulate work friends, the best of whom have mastered the art of water-cooler banter and are a drunken riot at office parties. Then you’re on to mommy friends, with whom you commiserate about under-eye circles and breast pumps. In between there are the wife friends you meet through your husband’s co-workers, neighborhood friends who can pull your garbage to the curb when you’re on vacation, and the list goes on. If you’re lucky you have also maintained some of your childhood and teenage friends, who knew you way back when you were turning your hair orange with Sun-In and barely filling your training bras. These women have seen you at your worst, so you’ve got nothing to hide from them. Which is liberating.

Since I’ve moved to San Francisco I’ve acquired some of my best friends yet, which goes to show that you never stop forging new relationships. With one of my pals, it was love at first dinner party. Once night she and her family ate at my house, and immediately after dessert she rushed to my kitchen and began washing glasses and wrapping leftovers with aluminum foil. This was a spectacle that I had witnessed only during multi-generational Italian-American get-togethers back home. (This new friend wasn’t even Italian, so I knew right then and there she was a keeper.) I suddenly realized that at this stage in life, people who can help me load the dishwasher are significantly more attractive than those who can nab the coolest concert tickets. And that I absolutely need in my life a handful of women with whom I can laugh and cry, and entrust my deepest feelings. Their presence in my life is absolutely essential to my mental health, and I’d like to think they feel the same way about me.

Shoot, I don’t think there’s enough room in that Miami ranch house for all my Golden Girls. (You know, God forbid I’ll ever need to rally them.) Maybe Trump’s Mar-a-Lago mansion in Palm Beach would be a better choice. I’ll give The Donald a call, first thing in the morning.