My Aunt Shirley used to refer to her circle of friends as gals, as in “I have plans to go out with the gals.” Even as a kid, I sensed her joy. Her gals were wildly fun and deeply important to her, somewhere between a surfable wave and a votive candle.
My mother had friends, but she wasn’t a gals person, and I was enough of a self-styled iconoclast to assume my future would be similarly gal-less. Instead, I’d surround myself with a select group of intellectuals and artistes on those rare nights I wasn’t content to dance alone in front of a full-length mirror, lip synching to Joni Mitchell.
Come to find out I’m all about my gals, a good number of whom are related to me by blood or marriage, and others I have lucked into along the way. My gals are an eclectic bunch, a scattering of young, old, and in-between, upon whom, whether I need grounding or a shakeup, I’d stake my life.
Long ago, from my aunt, I learned about gals as going out, gals as double-dog dares, but more recently, through my own gals- and you lovelies know who you are- I have come to understand the profound comfort of together, coming in.