You ruined our naughty girls' lunch by ordering salad, SARAH

Dear Sarah,

Hey girl. It's me. Sorry I haven't responded to your last text message inviting me to Pilates tomorrow. Honestly? I'm gonna go ahead and tell you it's a hard no. Moving right along, I want to talk to you about last Friday. If you don't recall the events of last Friday, allow me to jog your memory.

It was a tepid autumn day. I remember because I literally woke up, looked outside my window and said to Greg, "oh my god what a beautiful autumn day." And he was like, "yeah I think it's supposed to be like, 18 today." 18 is the perfect weather this time of year, Sarah. Per-fect.

If your memory is still failing you, last Friday was the day our girls' lunch out was scheduled. The e-mail thread discussing our plans to meet at Milestones at 1:15 included you, me, Ash and Robyn (even though we went back and forth about Robyn because she's been a BIT MUCH about her essential oils business lately.)

I hadn't treated myself to a lunch out of the office in months. MONTHS, Sarah. I've been showing up to work with a pre-made lunch every day for the last 72 days. Why? Because I am a responsible adult, Sarah. I cook at home not because I like to, but because I know the promise of a warm, microwaveable lunch awaits me the following day. I refuse to be that ass-hat in the office who brings a tuna effing sandwich like a depraved virgin, Sarah. Because I. RESPECT. MY PEERS. And I thought you did, too.

The possibilities were endless. I swear to god when we all sat down in that booth at Milestones I almost ODed on the pure ecstasy and decadence that lay before us in that sticky menu. Robyn had finally shut up about the new Luscious Lavender scent she was trying to pawn off on all the sad, divorced men in the office. Ash hadn't said much. I think she was too excited about our naughty afternoon excursion to speak. And you… well you seemed a bit off, Sarah. You reminded me of what's-her-face from Gone Girl before she FULLY GONE-d Ben Affleck.

And then, all was revealed.

Our waiter, who was one eye-patch shy of nailing every background actor's look in Pirates of the Caribbean, came back to the table, notepad and pen at the ready. He started to take our orders. Robyn ordered a bacon cheeseburger. "Hell yeah I'll have fries," she said. "I have an oil back home that literally sucks the oils from my pores and butt at the same time." Ash looked up at him with tears in her eyes. She ordered pasta like she had never tasted anything aside from old potatoes and literal coal her entire life. I ordered fish and chips. BATTERED. FISH. And chips, Sarah. With EXTRA tartar sauce because I was the BAD GIRL OF FRIDAY LUNCH for ONCE in my life.

And then the waiter turned his eye-lined eyes in your direction.

"I'll have the Cobb salad without cheese and with the dressing on the side please… actually do you have a vinaigrette?"

Everyone's breathing came to a screeching halt.

I swear to God I saw the light leave Robyn's eyes. Ash's joyful tears turned into ones of a girl whose entire family had just been taken from her. And me? Well, Sarah, it felt like someone had ripped out my heart and threw it to the side like an unmemorable character from Game of Thrones. You ruined lunch that day, Sarah. You ruined US. That day was supposed to be the best day of my EFFING year. Of OUR year. Even our shitty Johnny Depp waiter looked like you had taken a bag of dog droppings and asked him to "be a doll and dispose of this."

Needless to say, the girls and I need some time to process and unpack all of this. Until you figure your life out, we are unable to include you in any other girls' lunches in the near future. This may seem harsh, but need I remind you of Rule 1.52 of the handbook: Friends don't let friends order salad at a naughty girls' retreat.

I'm sorry. I have to go. I hope you consider your actions and really think about what you've done. Call me when you want to go for salt-on-the-rim margaritas and extra-cheese pizza. Until then, I'm taking a vow of silence on this friendship.

Passionately anguished,

Amanda

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