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started laughing his huh, huh, huuuagh laugh, and gave me a big hug. “Girl,” he said, “I just came to remind you, you don’t have to carry this load all by yourself.”
    To know that people care about how you’re doing when the doing isn’t so good—that’s what love is. I feel blessed to know this for sure.

     
     
    I thought I knew a lot about friendship until I spent 11 days traveling across the country in a Chevy Impala with Gayle King. We’ve been close since we were in our early twenties. We’ve helped each other through tough times, vacationed together, worked on my magazine together. And still there was more to learn.
    On Memorial Day 2006, we set out to “see the U.S.A. in a Chevrolet.” Remember that commercial from years ago? Well, I always thought it was a charming idea. When we pulled out of my driveway in California, we were singing the jingle loudly, with vibrato, cracking ourselves up. Three days in, around Holbrook, Arizona, we were mumbling the tune. And by Lamar, Colorado, five days in, we’d stopped singing altogether.
    The trip was grueling. Every day, six, then eight, then ten hours with nothing but road stretched ahead. When Gayle drove, she insisted on constant music; I wanted silence. “To be alone with my thoughts” became a running joke. As she sang along boisterously, I realized there wasn’t a tune she didn’t know. (She called almost everyone her favorite.) This was as nerve-racking for me as the silence was for her when I was behind the wheel. I learned patience. And when patience wore thin, I bought earplugs. Every night, landing in a different hotel, we were exhausted but still able to laugh at ourselves. We laughed at my merging anxiety, interstate anxiety, and passing-another-vehicle anxiety. Oh, and crossing-a-bridge anxiety.
    Of course, Gayle will tell you I’m not a great driver. She herself is a masterly driver, taking the curves on the Pennsylvania Turnpike with ease and steadily leading us into New York. Only one glitch: By the time we reached Pennsylvania, her contacts had been in too long and her eyes were tired. We approached the George Washington Bridge, relieved to end the long run of Cheetos and pork rinds from gas stations. Dusk had fallen, and night was approaching fast. Gayle said, “I hate to tell you this, but I can’t see.”
    “What do you mean, you can’t see?” I tried to ask calmly.
    “All the headlights have halos. Do they have halos to you?”
    “Uhhhh, no, they do not. Can You See the Lines on the Road? ” I was shouting now, envisioning the headline: FRIENDS FINISH JOURNEY IN A CRASH ON GW BRIDGE. There was nowhere to pull over, and cars were speeding by.
    “I know this bridge very well,” she said. “That’s what’s saving us. And I have a plan. When we get to the toll, I’m going to pull over and take out my contacts and get my glasses.”
    The toll was a long way ahead. “What can I do?” I said, near panic. “Do you need me to steer for you?”
    “No, I’m going to hug the white lines. Can you take out my contacts and put on my glasses?” she joked. At least I think she was joking.
    “That would be dangerous and impossible,” I said.
    “Then turn up the air, I’m sweatin’,” she said.
    We both sweated our way to the toll booth—and safely pulled into New York. The crew following us had T-shirts made: I SURVIVED THE ROAD TRIP .
    What I know for sure is that if you can survive 11 days in cramped quarters with a friend and come out laughing, your friendship is real.

     
     
    The story of how my beloved dog Sadie came into my life is one for the ages: At a humane shelter in Chicago, she hugged my shoulder, licked my ear, and whispered, “Please take me with you.” I could feel her making a bid for a new life with me.
    I felt an instant connection with her. But just to be sure I wasn’t caught up in a moment of overwhelming puppy love, Gayle said, “Why don’t you wait and see how you feel tomorrow?” So I