I have this friend. She is nothing like me. And we’re okay with that.
Alright, I have a lot of friends like this. Most of them are. In fact, I have yet to meet a person who reminded me of me other than my mother, but she’s oodles sweeter than I’ll ever be.
The friend in particular that I have in mind is different from me idealistically. She is a hopeless romantic. I am a cynic/realist/disappointed idealist (believe it or not).
She is a fairy princess. I’m more of a fairy godmother. Be back by midnight, or else.
She is head over heels. My heels are still quite firmly fixed on the ground—though my head is often in the clouds.
She sees the world through rose-colored lenses–nothing in the future could possibly go wrong. I’m pretty sure my glasses are grey. Protects my retinas.
She adores babies. I never know what to do with them, other than make faces at them.
Her heart is on her sleeve. Mine is securely fastened in my chest.
But yet, we are friends. We are good friends, and we will probably always be friends.
You see, differences are what bind us. If we were all the same, I doubt we’d find each other even remotely interesting. It helps to have a romantic’s perspective on the world—it makes me a better person to think about the way others think about the world.