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too afraid. Too afraid of dying.
    We returned to the clinic. More dying men. Lily, of course, was dressed in high heels that clicked along the linoleum when they called my number. She held my hand tightly, both of our palms sweaty. I think I was numb. I barely remember it, as if the whole thing was a dream that happened, almost underwater, like an old Esther Williams’s musical.
    We were escorted into a private room. “Your test came back negative for HIV.” The nurse said it quickly, not prolonging my agony.
    I started crying. Lily started crying—actually, she gasped first and then her hand flew to her mouth and she cried silently with relief.
    The nurse had compassionate eyes, warm and brown, and absolutely white hair. I guessed she was around sixty. I can’t imagine that she had, back in nursing school, pictured one day working in a gay men’s clinic.
    “It’s okay.” She patted my hand. “People cry either way.”
    Lily and I left the clinic and when we got outside to the sidewalk, we grabbed each other and jumped up and down.
    “Let’s go get drunk,” I said. “I feel like celebrating.” It was as if someone had just handed me my entire life in a box with a ribbon on it.

9
    What I’ve Learned
by Lily Waters
    This last birthday was a Big One. I wish I could get away with saying it was thirty. I told most acquaintances it was thirty-five. But it was actually that Big One. I break out in a cold sweat just thinking about it.
    What do I have to show for forty years on the planet?
    For starters, I have credit card debt so deep I need a shovel to get through the bills each month. A house with a leaky roof. A dog that doesn’t come when I call it or sit when I tell it to. (The dog will, however, climb up on the kitchen table to eat out of my son’s cereal bowl in the morning.)
    I have a closet full of size sixes I no longer fit in, and too many gray hairs to pluck—I’d be bald. I have a hint of crow’s-feet, and I spend more on one jar of my anti-wrinkle cream than I used to spend on groceries for an entire month back when I was a struggling reporter.
    I have a minivan with nearly 100,000 miles on it, and my kids think I am the least-cool mother on the planet. Me! I was the rebel in high school. I was the girl everyone wanted to hang out with. Now, instead of wearing cute tops, braless, I wear enough underwire to set off the security alarm at the airport.
    So would I go back in time and be twenty again?
    Not on your life. If I did go back in time, I’d have to give up all this wisdom I’ve accumulated.
    I’ve learned you really can count your best friends on one hand. They’re the ones you can call to nurse you through a broken heart at 2:00 a.m. By forty, you’ve more than likely held hands with them as you’ve collectively lost parents or watched a marriage circle the drain, or agonized over children heading down the wrong path, or a boss who seemed determined to make life a living hell. They’ve seen you with the flu and bad haircuts. You’ve attended funerals together and weddings. And second weddings. And even a few third weddings. They’ve learned to love you despite all your flaws because that’s what friendship means once you’ve aged a little bit.
    I’ve learned that growing up means letting go. Suddenly it doesn’t seem worth it to carry that grudge against the woman who stole your boyfriend—she can have him! It also means letting go of the dream that somehow your parents will change and undo all the harm and pain they caused you when you were growing up. You must either accept them or feel forever bound and torn apart by the past.
    I’ve learned that no matter how hard I try, I will never be the perfect mother, the perfect friend or the perfect lover. In turn, I’ve learned to stop demanding perfection from others.
    I’ve learned a lot of other little things, too. Like eating yogurt one day past its expiration date won’t kill me, tanning just gives me wrinkles and freckles,