When Vodka is Stronger than Blood

That’s the beauty of your urban family. Everything they do is by choice. They don’t have to help you move your gazillion-pound, twenty seven–inch TV up the four flights of stairs to your apartment. Your parents or siblings aren’t there guilting them into doing it. They do it because they want to; because they’re interested in helping you. That interest is born out of geographic proximity as well as the details you learn in passing over dinner, coffee, or a walk—day after day.

I would be lost without my urban family. I would be a poorly-advised, sloppily-dressed, unsocialized, un-funny mouse of a woman who would probably never speak or crack a joke because, well, who else would laugh at my material? They are my day-to-day lifeline, my human touchstones who know exactly what I’m thinking, how to advise me, and how to cheer me up—simply by the look on my face.

They ask about my doctor’s appointments. They move heavy boxes for me. They listen and remember details from work stories that probably bore them to tears. They laugh at my stories even though they’ve heard them all a thousand times. They invite me to holiday dinners when I can’t go home to be with my family. They know how to get in touch with my parents in case of an emergency. They’re my local emergency contacts listed on my work and medical files, my partial life insurance beneficiaries, and the people who know what songs I want played at my wedding and my funeral. They celebrate my birthday like it’s an international holiday. They even celebrate my half- birthday.

Your blood family will always be your family, no matter what. There’s no getting rid of them, and hopefully, you don’t want to. But without taking anything away from them, I have to say that I love my urban family just as much. I love them because they know my deepest, darkest, ugliest secrets and habits—yet they still choose to be my friends. Sometimes I wonder why they do it. Maybe Bridget’s urban family answered it best with their birthday toast to her: