I have been extraordinarily blessed to hold good men as some of my dearest and oldest friends. Some have been like brothers; others my betrothed; others my stage lovers. We have camped and carpooled together, laughed and cried, karaoked and improvised. They have guided me through break ups, buoyed me through unemployment, clapped for me at performances, paid for me when it meant the most, given me their bed to sleep in, confided in me with news and fears, called me in times of crisis, showered me with thoughtful gifts, inspired me with their faith, cooked their first egg with me. When the world claims “men and women can’t be friends,” I have years of evidence to the contrary. I have Max's uproarious laughter; David B.'s reliability; Justin's creativity; and Paul's generosity, just to start. Frankly, I don’t know who or where I would be without these men in my life, but recently, I lost one.
