I have never been good at making friends. Like, ever.

From as far back as I can remember, I have been told I “look mean.”

Seriously.

I never know what to say when someone I meet finally gets comfortable enough to say, “I thought you were mean.” As a result, making friends has never been something at which I excelled.

My kid goes to an international kindergarten off post here in Korea. For seven hours a day, he is gone, and I get to catch up on my crap television (I do other things, like volunteer, but I’m rarely giddier than I am when I have a marathon viewing of Mob Wives or Mad Men).

The worst part for me, as the most anti-social, anxiety-ridden mom ever, is the bus stop. Waiting for the bus to arrive was something I dreaded, because if I was early or the bus was late, I’d be forced to socialize with people whom I didn’t know.

(Okay, as I write this, I am starting to understand the whole I “look mean” thing.)

There was this woman Mary who talked to everyone at the bus stop. Sweet, easy going, and funny, you could tell she didn’t want anyone to feel left out. One day, she approached me and started to go into a diatribe about certain aspects of motherhood.

And I?

Felt like I met my female soulmate. As she put it so eloquently, “I love being a mother. Just not every day.” I knew I had to be her friend.

We are an unlikely pair. She is beautiful, hysterical, smart as a whip, teaches nurses how to be nurses, and is a 40-something Navy spouse. I’m fat, awkward, a college dropout, teach my 4-year-old son to fart on people, and am a 20-something Army spouse.

We ended up being friends. Best friends, even.

We make each other laugh, and I think our friendship borders on inappropriate most days. Sending each other love songs via YouTube? Totally normal. When I was in therapy, I had a revelation that I was afraid of losing her friendship. After a session, I called her, crying (biggest, fattest baby ever), pouring my heart out, letting her know how much her friendship means to me. That’s the kind of love I’m talking about.

Alas, she is PCSing in a few weeks. I am not handling it well, because:

• I’m a big fat baby
• Who is going to laugh at my jokes now?
• Everyone I know is PCSing this summer, leaving me to fend for myself.

How can I be president of the spouses’ club and not know anyone in it?!

PCS season, how I loathe thee. She will leave me, and I will be drowning myself in chocolate and crap television. When I’m done, I’ll put on my big girl panties, put myself out there for, like, the second time in my life, meet new people, and change the I “look mean” to I “look kind of nice.” We, military spouses, are on a whole other level of resilient.

On a positive note, we already have plans to meet up stateside in November. Our love will go on…