My ‘girl squad’ consists entirely of boys

My girl squad consists entirely of boys – and I say that because it’s a far cry to describe them, in their ever-formative state, as men.

This has been true from the age of seven, when my male best friend was the best companion to play with dolls, to the ages of sixteen and seventeen where “Galentine’s Day” dates were evenings in which my closest male friends and I cooked a romantic dinner at home and ended the evening channeling our inner Regina George, with Facebook as the new Burn Book. Close female friends have always been few and far between, with the exception of a select few, who really stand no ground in the face of my male friendships.

My ‘squad’ is complicated at best – completely refuting the ridiculous stereotype that women prefer their male friends because there’s less drama – and loyal to the core. I wake up regularly to texts somewhere along the lines of “something earth-shattering happened, and I think you should know” which are followed up by conversations that jump between FaceTime, Skype, and regular phone calls. We all keep up no matter how great the distance between us is.

My male friends surpass my female ones in every way. Not only are they (reluctantly) willing to accompany me on (painful) shopping trips, partake in second and third dinners, run obscure errands and generally engage in completely ludicrous shenanigans, they’re also the first to call me out on my bullshit.

Be it constantly reminding me of an embarrassing phase (or hairstyle—yes, hairstyle), or refusing to allow me to make a silly decision, and making it their personal mission to ensure that I don’t, or understanding and analyzing my family dynamic better than I ever could, they support me in ways I don’t even realize (just like a really great bra). 

They’re there to take selfies, or ask me what’s wrong with my face (mid-contour), indulge in many lost hours of reality TV marathons, and to jam out to Fifth Harmony and One Direction in the car. They’ve taught me how to drive, while in the passenger seat, and make efforts to try and keep everything as together as possible on seriously debauched evenings, while obsessively fan-girling over my mother.  Our interactions warrant our own Bravo show, and our love for each other is as deep as the Kardashian sisters.

I might not have Taylor’s squad of empowered, successful, statuesque women, but my boys are my boys, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.