No, I am not referring to World Wrestling Entertainment.  I’m talking about my girls, aka: the Women Who Eat.  The WWE, for short.  The four of us have been friends for about a hundred years – collectively speaking, that is – and were named by a long-forgotten boyfriend one night during a raucous and lavish dinner.

“I love these women!” he gushed.  “They eat.”

Truer words were never spoken…  We’ve gone to Tea at The Ritz.  Eaten Fenway Franks standing up.  We’ve been to Morton’s for steaks, and the North End for pasta.  We’ve sipped Malbec, toasted with Kir Royales, and indulged in a margarita or two.  PMS’ed on obscenely expensive and highly caloric cupcakes.  We’ve had breakfast for dinner, brought in take-out, and cooked for each other.

But who we are, and who we are to each other, goes way beyond our shared healthy appetite.  During our collective hundred years of friendship, we’ve celebrated weddings and babies, hosted showers, housewarming parties, and milestone birthdays.  No topic is off limits and the laughter is infectious whenever the WWE get together.

Over the years, there have been some dark times spent in hospital waiting rooms.  We’ve lifted each other up through illness, prayed for each other as well as for ailing parents.  Too many times, we’ve comforted each other through heartbreaking losses.

Our lives are complicated and we can’t get together as often as we’d like.  But we do our best.  Just last week, as the weather turned pleasantly warm, a flurry of late-afternoon emails and texts were exchanged.  We not only wanted to dine outdoors, we wanted to be near the ocean. The waitress was overburdened and the food was a long time coming.  But we didn’t mind.  Because the view of the harbor was breathtaking.  And we were together.