The Other Andra
For years, I have heard tell of another Andra, a woman who lived mere miles from my front door. With a name like Andra, it isn’t often that one runs into another, leaving me to be the bright, shining weirdo in the room. Knowing that another one of me lived in close proximity has always been such a tease.
I have never met this elusive other Andra.
But, last night, I had an outing with her brother. Unplanned, we met for drinks, and about three-quarters of the way through, he said, “Have you ever met another Andra?”
“Nope,” I replied. Adult outings render me illiterate.
I have heard about this elusive Andra for years and years and years. For more than a decade, I knew she existed, mere blocks from my various front doors.
I never met her. And, now, I have shared drinks and dinner with her brother while she has relocated to Michigan.
I have always wanted to ask another human being what it is like to be, ahem, blessed with the name Andra. Her brother couldn’t help me with that bit of illumination. Now, I may never know.
Too Much Is Just Enough: Andra