F.K.C.  I’ve mentioned it before.  A slight explanation to follow, but nothing eluding to what those three little letters could stand for.  Now, some of you may guess, because as it turns out, we weren’t as clever as we thought, but others may be at a loss.

I’ll get to the name in a second.  The FKC are my best friends from college.  There is E, LM (real life sisters, also my former roommates) and A.  E, A and I refer to ourselves as the co-founders.  We started calling each other the FKC kind of early on into our friendship (there was another member at that time, but her inability to leave her crazy – seriously, I’m not even exagerating – then-boyfriend caused us to fall out of step).  Eventually, LM (E’s older sister) started hanging out with us and a bond was quickly formed.

All in the same sorority, the FKC was widely known.  I’m going to be real about sororities.  I loved mine.  Still do.  Try to do as much as an alum as I can.  But with close to 100 girls, there are going to be clicks.  And the FKC was ours.  Our circle of friends was known as the FKC.

Hmm… FKC.  Friends Keeping Close?  No.  Fly Kids Club?  Uhh, nope.  Fanny Kickers Circle?  Haha, I’m getting out of hand.  Fat Kids Club.  Yup, that’s it.  Now, none of us are actually fat – we’re not runway skinny.  Just average.  The name is not meant to be derogatory toward anyone.  It is simply because, well, we like to eat.  Ha.  Secretly, everyone likes to eat.  Whether they admit it or not.  You know when you’re out with a group and secretly you want to order the cheese fries and a meal.  Ahh, well for those of you who don’t feel comfortable – Will people judge?  Eww, all the carbs.  The fat. – Come hang out with us.  You want it?  Order it!  Who cares.

Plus, so much can happen over a meal, or a snack, or a midnight run to McDonald’s.  Trading details of that guy you made out with at the bar the other night, the discussions about getting engaged to your long time boyfriend, gossiping about anyone.  Good times. 

These girls are my best friends.  I mean, we even have tshirts.  Actually… more than one. 🙂  If I had pictures, I would show you, but in the meantime you’ll have to use your imagination.

Tshirt one: Plain black tshirt with FKC letters made out of blue sequined fabric (we all worked at the Greek shop that made “letter” shirts, it was easy access).  Junior year of college we (this is pre-LM) are driving down to Ft. Lauderdal for spring break.  A week of umbrella drinks, beer, sand, sun, bars, clubs and getting free drinks for flirting with boys.

Coincidentally (and it really was a coincidence), we all wear the shirt for the drive down.  We see eachother… ‘oh God, should we change?’  ‘Oh who cares?  We’ll be in the car the whole time.’

Right.  Until we get a flat tire.  And have to stop at a Walmart tire center to get it fixed.  Somewhere in the middle of eastern Florida.  And it’s kind of late.  A and E are in line while myself and the former FKC member are outside about to walk in.  A girl in front of them turns around and asks what the letters stand for.  She was a bigger girl and A didn’t want to offend her with what the letters actually meant.  This is how the conversation goes (keep in mind, there are lots of other people in line):

Girl in Line (GIL): Oh, what are your shirts for?
A: Um, we’re a dance team.  [Good thinking, A]
GIL: Why are you all wearing them?
A: We’re on our way back from a competition. [Ok, still believable]
GIL: What kind of dance do you do?
A: [oh crap!  A knows nothing about dance, what is she going to do?] Weee’ree a, um, French modern dance team.  [Annnd, we’re starting to lose it here]
GIL: Oh, that’s what the letters are for?  What’s the name of it?
A: Haha, it’s French, I can’t even pronounce it.
[Enter:  me and former FKC member, completely clueless to above conversation]
A: Kris!  You speak French, how do you pronounce the name of our French modern dance team, you know, the one that these letters stand for?
Me: [completely dumbfounded, trying not to break out in hysterics at 1-the question and 2-the priceless look on A’s face]  Actually, I can’t really pronounce it either.  [Turn around, trying to hide laughter, tears streaming down my face, group of obviously college spring break boys behind me laughing, they definitely know none of this is true]
GIL:  oh that’s cool. [She bought that?!]
A: So what do you do?
GIL:  I ride horses in competition [side note: obviously she doesn’t.  Not to be mean, but she’s too big of a girl to compete horses.]
GIL:  See this mark [points to mark on forehead], that’s where I got kicked in the head by a horse a couple years ago.
A:  Yikes, that had to hurt.

Eventually the conversation dies out.  We are all trying not to look at one another for fear of laughter – also, why is this line taking so damn long, we just need them to patch our tire.  GIL, for some reason, walks away.  Now, we talk somewhat freely about the exchange and the ridiculousness of it.  College boys behind us are openly laughing.  We talk pleasentries with them.  It really was funny.  Again, not to be mean, but GIL didn’t really have it all together. 

A few minutes re-enter GIL.  Turns out she hadn’t left line, she was there with her father.  Who had heard our whole conversation about it all being fake and sort of making fun of her after she left.  He says nothing to us or to her.  Not then anyway.  Phew. 

We still laugh about this today.  It was great.  Classic.  I love these girls.  One day, I’ll share a story about tshirt #2.  Let’s just say, we got a little bolder.  It includes a Wendy’s and something about weighing 400 pounds.

What are some of your silliest, classic memories?

The FKC in San Francisco