It’s Saturday night, time to get ready to tear up the town, and I stand in front of the… It’s Saturday night, time to get ready to tear up the town, and I stand in front of the abyss that is my closet faced with that age-old dilemma — a closet full of clothes, and nothing to wear. None of my roommates are home to offer their services for the “make Colleen cute” challenge so, without thinking twice, I fall back on old faithful — my best friend from home.

Because I’m hell-bent on taking AT’T for every dime it’s worth during the free night and weekend hours, I call her up and explain my ordeal. Without missing a beat, she says, “Wear your black, off-the-shoulder, three-quarter-length-sleeved shirt, your not-too-blue jeans, black heels … and wear that choker thing — it’s cute.” I interject the idea of sporting an alternate shirt, but she cuts me off, saying, “No, that one doesn’t do you justice.”

We discuss our various weekend plans for a few minutes, and I hang up. As I reach into my closet to retrieve the instructed items, I’m hit with an eerie feeling. That girl knows me way too damn well. Even while we’re living in separate zip codes, my best friend still has an exact mental image of me — and of all of my clothes — and knows exactly the items I will and will not wear.

Our friendship is based on the fact that we’re both annoying little sisters living in the shadow of “golden child” older siblings, and we’re absolutely convinced that we are always getting shafted. This, along with an unhealthy infatuation with all things Disney, has bonded us together. We have the perfect number of similarities to balance out our many differences, and to steal from “Forrest Gump,” we go together like “peas and carrots.” Despite all of this, that was probably the first time we’d actually spoken to each other the entire week.

She’s at a college close to home, doing her thing. School, work, boyfriend, student teaching — it’s a rare occasion that I can catch her when she isn’t running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I’m out here doing my own thing — school, work, living a life doomed to eternal single-dom and slowly trying to rock the world one column at a time.

In spite of our separate lives, we both know that if either one of us were to wind up naked in the street at 4 a.m. — that the other would drop everything to go help out without so much as blinking.

The hectic nature of our schedules doesn’t allow us to yak on the phone aimlessly as much as we’d like, and this is the first semester that she hasn’t been able to fit a trek on the turnpike to the ‘Burgh into her agenda. But I don’t panic or fear that we’re slipping away from each other. We both understand that even though we’re detached, we’re never absent from one another’s lives.

Although it’s a bit scary and bewildering at times, it’s comforting to know that there is someone out there who knows me almost better than I know myself. Despite the fact that there is no biological connection, I consider her to be nothing less than a member of my family. She gives me the best of advice, and I know she truly has my best interest at heart when she isn’t afraid to tell me when I’m being a “hard-core douchebag” in any given situation.

She’s the type of person who, even though I may not see her or speak with her on a daily basis, she’s always there when I need her — be it something of actual importance like figuring out what in the world I’m going to do with myself after college, or picking out the perfect ensemble for a Saturday night.

Colleen Bayus is lucky enough to have the best and weirdest friends anyone could ask for. E-mail her at [email protected]