Welcome to #BestLife, a column on how to embrace aging and the life changes that come with it. In this installment, Donna Freydkin talks about how her best friend got her through one of the most challenging experiences in her life — and emerge from it stronger than ever.
Our code word is #commune.
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Sure, a macrobiotic diet and abstinence from tobacco can't hurt. But a 2017 University of Michigan study found that it was friendships that help you live longer, healthier, happier lives.
Let's just say, that's not exactly news to me. My husband, the beef to my broccoli, the cheese to my burger (you get the drift), died of brain cancer in 2012. And into the void, as much as humanly possible, stepped my friends. One in particular.
Back then, I was a shell of a human. I barely functioned on even the most basic level. Keeping my job while also getting my kid fed were my two greatest daily achievements. Forget haircuts, basic grooming, or manicures. In my mind, none of it mattered because I was a widow, a has-been, a washed-out old hag with hardly any reason to get out of bed in the morning.
But every day, I'd get a call from Roka, who had moved to Austin from Brooklyn and was going through her own marital collapse. No reason for the call. Just a quick check-in, a brief and lighthearted conversation about whether her curly hair was a curse or a gift, how I could get my son to bathe after a sudden and inexplicable fear of the water overtook him, or why there was a dearth of decent sushi in Texas.
Silly, often mindless chats that nevertheless rooted my reality, gave me a sense of being grounded and connected to something demonstrably human and functional. Life, it seemed, really did go on, whether it felt like it or not.
Slowly, achingly slowly, I emerged from my self-imposed shell of misery. And I didn't recognize the woman I saw in the mirror, the one who lived in elastic-waist pants, who hadn't opened her favorite Chanel gloss in years, whose skin was flaky and bumpy. Roka started to gently coax me to get a cut and color. After all, why not? Justin loved seeing me with glossy hair and wouldn't he be thrilled? So to Fekkai I marched, and emerged feeling not exactly giddy, but, well, a bit more sane and less gross.
Baby steps.
Justin and I had always planned, at some point that never had time to pass before his death, on going swimming with wild dolphins in open water. So Roka and I planned a trip to South Carolina, where we chartered a boat with the kids and all leapt into a cove. We were surrounded by the majestic mammals, who surveyed us curiously before racing back into the ocean. That moment, I felt like I was part of something bigger, something emotionally bracing, something life-altering. She was there for it. And it was. In the photos from the trip, I'm grinning like a fool, and to my own shock, having a hell of a great time.
Next up, the physical. After Justin died, during the course of an interview, Joan Rivers asked me whether it would kill me to "wear some fucking lipstick." No, Joan, it wouldn't, and yes, Joan, it would certainly make me feel better, but getting to that point just seemed — well, pointless. Not so, said Roka.
Like me, Roka is a beauty junkie. And like me, she's particular about she rubs on her skin. Given that I'm lucky enough to get paid to write about all manner of serums and lotions, I introduced her to a few of my favorites and turned her on to the wonders of facial oils: Herbivore Botanicals' Lapis Facial Oil, Ursa Major Morning Mojo Soap, the heavenly Omorovicza Instant Perfection Serum, and my absolute go-to, Dr. Jart Ceramidin Body Oil. And of course, we mask together, in our case the Youth to the People Age Prevention Superfood Mask, a magical green potion that tightens and brightens.
She, in turn, helped me grasp that being alone, as society defines it — unmarried, widowed, man-less, table for one — isn't the black cloud of doom I always perceived it to be. That sometimes, being in control of your environment, of knowing where you left your keys, or never having to wash another adult's dirty underwear, isn't such a bad thing. And she's become my one-woman support system, and I, hers. We see each other at least three times a year. We go on single mom vacations with our kids, each time to a new destination. She forces me to wear mascara and lipstick — thank you, Diorshow and Chanel Rouge Coco Shine in Deauville. And we're both devotees of barre, even as our knees crack during class because let's face it, we're no longer the lithe spring chickens of ten years ago.
It's why we've come up with #commune. Our kids are older. Our lives, hopefully, more settled. Our hair, on point. So maybe it's time to put the whole village concept to work and rent a house together in Brooklyn, where the kids can commingle, our cats can coexist, and we can ensure that like the study above says, we live long and healthy and happy lives together.
More on living your best life:
Now, watch this video of centarians talking about what it takes to be the ultimate BFF:
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