Wifey Time

A “Wifey” is defined (by me) as one of your best besties. Everyone has one. You may call them by another name. Perhaps a pet name that stuck when you were kids.

My “Wifey” Suzan was given this term of endearment by my husband at least 20 years ago years ago when I rebuked an opinion I solicited from him. Exasperated, but not without humor, he said “Why don’t you go ask your wife.” I knew he meant Suzan. And so it began.

As some of you know Suzan was sent to LA as my publisher in 1997 — the same year I had my first worldwide smash and a baby. I needed help. Career Guidance. She let me nap under her desk in between sessions. In time we became inseparable. Confidants. We shared a taste in humor. We told each other hard truths.

Recently I read Build The Life You Want: The Art and Science of Getting Happier. In a chapter about friendship Arthor C. Brooks suggests that the best compliment you can pay a friend is that you have no use for them. In other words you don’t need them for anything. You simply cherish their company.

When covid hit, during an intolerable political climate to boot, Suzan decided to return to her homeland of Turkey. I thought sure she’d be back when things subsided but I was wrong. And so we agreed to meet somewhere in the world every year-ish. We call this “Wifey Time.”

Last year I visited her in Bodrum and Istanbul. This year we planned to meet in Greece. We were very excited to spend what we knew would be a week of nonstop chatter, catching up and laughter. We counted down the months, the weeks, the days.

I arrived at our Athens AirBnb Apt just as she was landing at the airport. We texted ETAs and updates. We couldn’t wait to reunite.

She used the lobby entrance code I sent. I heard the Bzzzz. I heard the latch. I heard her coming up the stairs. I unlocked the door of the apt in preparation of flinging it open. But upon pulling the knob inward the door only parted 3 inches from the jamb before it abruptly stopped with a thud as if there were a chain involved. But there wasn’t.

Open the door, she shouted.

I can’t. It’s stuck!

What do you mean it’s stuck?

It’s stuck. I can’t open it.

Is there a toggle? Flip the toggle!

I did!

I closed the door. I tried again. THUD.

Shelly ... she said … I see the problem. There’s a mechanism … a bolt … that’s sticking out. Are you sure you flipped the toggle in the right direction?

Yes!

We couldn’t see each others’ faces. Just our respective fingers prodding at the bolt in pursuit of domination. No luck.

We took deep breaths on opposite sides of the threshold and then with a bit more calm and logic re-assessed the situation. I realized the toggle didn’t actually ‘flip.’ It ‘turned.’ And apparently I had turned it too far.

I dialed it back. Success! She was in.

It was pretty fucking funny looking back. Very Laverne and Shirley. Lucy and Ethel if you know what I mean. Such is part of our every-day Wifey dynamic.

The gabbing and the catching up commenced.

In Athens we climbed up to the Acropolis — middle school text book pages coming to life. We strolled charming Plaka. We sat in the stands of the Panathenaic Stadium host of the first modern Olympics in 1896.

We took the tube to Balthazar — fellow foodies in search of the tangiest olive, the finest feta, the creamiest yogurt, the freshest sea bass.

We visited a Hammam (a Turkish bath) where we were scrubbed down on a slab of marble, rinsed off with warm foam, massaged and shampoo’d. We exited rather limp but happy.

That’s not actually us but you get the point!

Then over to Santorini where we rented a car and got lost. On purpose. Many times. We walked for miles along the Aegean on the meandering path adjacent to the jutting chalk-white lodgings. We rested on the stunning beaches of Kamari, Monolitos and Vourvoulos no where no one charged us for a chaise.

The Greek people were super friendly, helpful and chill. No one rushed us to turn a table or made us buy a coffee in exchange for the use of the restroom.

The Oia sunset (no, they’re not all the same) was outstanding.

The week before this I was all Songwriter in London … performing, collaborating, meeting, celebrating, networking, witnessing Bruce Springsteen grace a room with an acoustic version of “Thunder Road.” I relish that world but balance is key. It’s important to make time for life outside the music business so one has what to write about.

I witness the burnout (mine included) from back to back sessions — we’re all trying to write enough songs, work on enough projects so that something sticks. But one must make time to live and love outside of that world in order to write meaningfully about life, experience and relationships.

Suzan and I shared sunscreen. toothpaste and moisturizer. The conversation never lulled. We stayed at a modest hotel. Didn’t need the luxury of a private infinity pool or room service. We had a week of splendid quality Wifey Time. I had no use for her except to savor her company.

We’re thinking about Thailand for next year.

I miss her already.