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We spent the night of our grand summer slumber party making each other over. This, without the help of a smudge of makeup or a drop of nail polish.

So we were sitting in a circle, munching on potato chips while flipping through my old magazines, when Jill blurts out, “You do tend to be overly critical.” I did not have to look up to know that she was talking to Anne. I did have to look up to see what Anne’s reaction was, half-expecting a blowout.

Anne’s jaw dropped. “And overly dramatic, apparently,” Jill added, teasing.

“If this is still about the yearbook meeting you called and Lianne’s miserable excuse for an outfit, that is unfair. Her shiny, studded, purple jeans had purple fringes on them. I bedded to be criticized! I woke up that morning determined to be an angel. Can I be blamed if people dress like an eggplant around me?” Anne said through gritted teeth.

Jill burst out laughing, and couldn’t stop. We managed to make out the sentence, “And let us not forget her yellow snakeskin boots,” as she wiped away tears.

“You guys, that’s so mean,” Nicole, always the diplomat, interjected. “She must’ve genuinely thought that she looked okay. Everyone’s entitled to wear whatever they want, right?” she suggested, biting her lower lip.

Anne appeared to think it over. “Argh, why do you have to be the voice of reason?” she said, seemingly giving up. “Fine. I’ll make a deal with you, Nic. I won’t pick on anything that any person can’t changed within five minutes. That okay?” she bargained. I had to hand it to her only because I wasn’t sure Lianne didn’t deserve the criticism. Ms. Fashion Victim was a (popular) horrible human being. If she were otherwise, she could have orange hair and I know Anne wouldn’t care.

“That’s a great start, Anne!” Nicole replied, delighted. “What about me, Jill? Do you hate it when I’m obsessive-compulsive?”

“It’s endearing, Nic, it’s not annoying!” And then Jill added, “But then again, I don’t have to live with you.”

“The problem with Nicole is that she has no problem,” Anne exclaimed. “Admit it, Nic, you’re too nice, you’re too pretty, you’re too rich, and you’re too smart! And you hair’s too straight,” she said, running a hand through her wavy hair. “You’re just peachy, Nic.”

“I second that, with particular reference to your teeth” I said, envious, forever conscious of my tin grin.

“You guys,” Nicole started, embarrassed.

“If I could boink you on the head for that humility, I would,” Jill announced. “But as it is, my hands are presently engaged.” She had a can of soda in one hand and chips in the other. “Unfortunately, my one vice is in the way but I’m not giving it up.”

I tried to rack my brain for what I’d want to change about myself and I didn’t have to think too hard. I do tend to let my sweet tooth get the best of me. I do pretend to roll my eyes at boy band groupie classmates though I’m a closet, hard-core Justin Timberlake fan. I do tend to be impatient. And melodramatic. I think about AJ 24/7 that I feel it’s an overindulgence. I do tend to shop too much (or maybe I just take too long, shopping :)). I tend to be indecisive. I’m annoyed that I’m clumsy. I hate that my self-esteem fluctuates like the exchange rate but that it’s low, for the most part. I do tend to over pronounce words. And lately, I’ve been missing my best friend so much that I think I caught Jill start to roll her eyes when I ventured to talk about Chrissie yet again. Could I also be bordering on boring?

“Know what you should get rid of?” Anne suggested. “These magazines, for making insecure fools out of unrebonded-haired girls like me.”

“I do have a lot of those,” I said, thoughtfully.

“But what you dont’ have,” Jill said, slowly “are pictures with us.”

I took the yearbook mock-up that she was looking at and realized she was right. The five of us have been friends since who knows when but I can’t remember what sport Anne’s trying out for in June; or whether Jill’s allergic to chocolate or shrimp paste or both; or which boy Anne was crushing on in class. And yet strewn on these pages were pictures of Chrissie and I, and I knew exactly how she felt when each of the pictures were taken. Had I been flaking out on everyone but my one best friend?

Nicole looked away and I realized that I already knew the answer to what i was just now asking myself. “I didn’t mean to be so neglectful.” I started, apologetic.

“Katie, no biggie.” Anne said, reassuringly. “We’re not going anywhere.”

And so after that night, is it any wonder why I think my friends deserve nothing less than a better me?