Emma.  My best friend since day one.  Well, technically her day one.  She is three years younger than I am, but the three years I have on her leave no affect on our friendship.

Emma is probably the most athletic person I know; yet, I never see her exercise.  Every time I go to her house, which during the summer is almost every day, it is as if I am having a Groundhog Day experience.  Each time, I knock twice on the freshly white-painted front door, and without ever expecting a response, I walk right in.  I know Emma won’t get up to answer it.  She normally doesn’t even notice that I have arrived until I say, “Hey girl”.  She then, with a delayed reaction, glances up and replies, “Hey babe. Pop a squat”.

Lying on the same deep-green, well-worn couch she always is lying on, she points to the recliner to the right of her.  Before I even approach my designated seat, her gaze returns to the TV.  Not to my surprise, Keeping up with the Kardashians is displayed across the widescreen.  Emma has always loved reality TV.  I, on the other hand, have a very strong dislike towards it.

Many contrasts lie between Emma and me, but this only makes our friendship stronger.  We balance each other out. Like adding the perfect amount of tart lemon to a sweet dessert.  Yes, we bake a lot together.  For example, like I mentioned earlier, Emma is the most athletic person I know, and I can barely walk up the stairs without getting winded.  She can run a mile in less than six-and-a-half minutes, and I’m lucky if I can complete one in less than six-and-a-half hours.  She is the captain of the junior U.S. Olympic soccer team, and colleges have been scouting her for years.

Yet, when I think of her, I don’t think of the star athlete that she is.  I think of the lazy blob, skinny, but still a blob, sunken into the couch with a bag of walnuts in one hand, and the light golden hair of her dog, Bella, running through the fingers of her other hand.