This week, I got the news that one of my oldest and dearest friends got engaged. First, let me say that she and the now fiancé have been in Australia all week. Vacay vomit. I hate you both.

Sure, we had quiet bets going about whether “it” would happen while they’re down there. [What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t take bets on the biggest decision she’ll ever make and her life’s future happiness?] But, surprisingly, I found myself overwhelmed and almost teary after reading her brief e-mail with the news from Down Under.

It has nothing to do with love giving me the warm tingles (it doesn’t). It has nothing to do with the thought of them being insanely happy over a lifetime together (I couldn’t be more certain that they will). It’s simply that I am proud (yes, proud) of these two grown up people, friends that I care deeply for, who have come to this ultimate conclusion (you know, that whole thing about not living without the other) and have decided to spend the rest of their lives together. Who really love each other. Who I just know will one day have beautiful babies. One of which will be named for me. [What?! Oh, stop. You know my name is super lovely and old fashioned.] And a live-in nanny named Anita. And a house with a picket fence and a dog. Because they’re perfect for each other. And this thing they’re gonna do – getting married – it’s just totally effing rad.

I’m thrilled to celebrate their engagement. It will be a time where we host parties in their honor, attend showers that revolve around bedroom attire or grilling tools, drink cucumber water and cross our fingers that he’s not hyperventilating while they choose a cake and a church and a date. Of course, there’s the ever-cliché night out where we’ll get her drunk and talk about the assholes she dated before she found “Mr. Right.” And those e-mails he sent early on that contained what I called “too many smiley faces for a straight guy.”

And I’ll be there, drink in hand, to remind her that he’s the last man she’ll ever sleep with and use words like  “prenup” and “diapers” just to see her raise an eyebrow, roll her eyes and give me her best “I cannot believe you just said that” face, as if she’s completely agast.

Cause you know what? Other than taking bets on when she’ll get knocked up and wearing some god-awful, designer taffeta-cotton blend monstrosity that accentuates your pear shape, it’s what you do when your oldest friends get married. Well, if you’re me.

Sincerely,

Sally B.

P.S. Congratulations, you two. Please, for god’s sake, procreate so I can fawn all over your offspring and teach him/ her naughty words and how to tweet.