sisters in zion.

I don't have many friends who are girls and never have. But in considering my experience last night meeting with Whitney and Meri over sushi, I feel like I'm at a place in my life where I'm finally capable of understanding the joys of female relationships.

Let me first emphasize how different we are.

Meri is feminine. Ultra-feminine. More feminine than me and a completely different brand of femininity. She's like, lacey, five-inch heels, long blonde hair, Sex and the City-watching feminine. She even has this "cute/squeaky" voice she turns on for when she's trying to get out of taking responsibility for something. But before you box her into a category of being any kind of stereotype, I add caution. She's also in her second year of med school at the U and has spoken her mind to me with such forceful honesty it has made me tremble.

Whitney's on the other end of the table, sitting across from Meri. I'm relying on her sharp whit and keen sensibilities to supervise us, in a way. Whitney will make sure we don't talk too long, too loud, or about inappropriate dinner topics. Whitney will laugh at the right times and about the right things. She will make the right jokes when we need them. She will be an attentive listener. She assumes a quiet, respected authority over the entire gathering.

I excuse myself to use the bathroom early on in our meal and upon returning to the table, notice that Meri's piece of sushi is mutilated and scattered across her plate. She's poking at a small piece of fish, awkwardly, with a chopstick in each fist.

"Do you like sushi, but just not the rice?", I ask.

Whitney starts laughing.

"No . . . I just . . . can't . . . I . . . really need a fork."

She mutters something about how she'll have to take a medication to help steady her hands for when she has to learn surgical procedures during her third year of medical school.

"So tell us your stories," Whitney suggests to her.

"Oh no. Tell me your stories."

Our conversation begins. We start with the basics: school, car purchases, living situations. It goes on for a little while.

"So how about boys?", I ask.

Meri opts for a little extravagance and orders a Vegas roll.

"Well . . . there is this one boy . . ." And it's fun to watch her face light up and observe her nervousness as she speaks. We go around the table, one by one, about our latest romantic hopes. We devour one another's stories, process them, and offer advice for each scenario.

"This reminds me of talking to you in your room from your lofted bed," Meri tells me.

"Right now I wish we all still lived in the mint-house; in Provo again," adds Whitney.

"I kind of wish we all had a place in Salt Lake right now," I say.

"I love that we're all single and have been to the temple," Whitney interjects, knowing just how to steer the conversation.

Meri responds, "Oh my gosh, I know. There was a time where that didn't seem too likely. . . I'm so proud of all of us."

When the check is payed and we've taken some pictures we all walk to our cars. Meri's parked a little further down from us and as we're getting in we both notice her butt teetering back and forth as she struts toward her car in her five-inch heels. She turns around and offers her signature saying we've both heard so many times:

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do." But then she adds,"and now that means a lot!"