The geography is unfriendly. The small island is surrounded by rocky shoals, with a persistent surf pounding against the shore. It rises to a steep peak in the center, forbidding to climb and hazardous to mount. Surfaces at the top are sharp and hard, and the wind seldom slows. Narrow gullies run down the sides of the mountain, formed by water coursing to the sea and ocean erosion reaching up. There’s nowhere comfortable to stand.

I met my best friend for a walk and meal yesterday. Maybe I should have cancelled. Lately I’m experiencing boredom, impatience, exasperation, and even a little contempt around Dana. I don’t want to feel that way about her. She’s a good person, my closest friend, and I love her.

We’re enjoying a little season of weddings. I remember the first time, when we were in our early 20s and dozens of our crowd tied the knot. There was a recurrence when our kids and our siblings’ kids hit that age, right around 2000. Now the younger set of offspring, our Millennials, are doing it. Dana’s 32 year old nephew had a NY ceremony last month, my 33 year old son is doing it next week, and I have a 34 year old nephew who will wed in August. All of a sudden Dana and I are talking about attire, etiquette, music, food and photos.

Which means Dana and I are disagreeing.

We’ve always had a form vs function debate. When we first met at 18, it was about shoes. Dana has small feet and dainty ankles. She’s never had a problem with shoe fit and she’s always chosen style. I wear a size 11 and have foot issues, probably from all the early ballet. I walk for transportation. I don’t select orthopedic-looking footwear, but comfort and correct support are my objectives.

As we’ve aged, we’ve managed to stay close even though our paths haven’t. I married twice, raised kids, established a small business, multi-tasked to near-neurosis. Dana stayed single, mostly idle, and acquired some health challenges that tend to fill her days. She’s always been my model for indolence. She’s always thought I am too busy, fast and frantic.

It’s weird. I come on as strong and intimidating. She is soft and blonde and flirtatious. But I’m the understanding one. Dana is draconian.

She hates the word. She told me that in no uncertain terms around the third time I said it, so now I never use it in her presence. But Dana has all sorts of ideas about what’s good for people, and she makes declarations that brook no argument. “All boys need to play team sports.” Or “I don’t like the way this waiter is responding to me. I’m the paying customer and I want it my way. I won’t be coming back here again.” She writes Yelp reviews but only when she’s dissatisfied.

She wasn’t like this when we met in college. She was a hippie revolutionary, into drugs and sex and rock&roll. And it wasn’t like she did the dismayingly standard retreat into conservatism as she aged. She still reads history. She has creative people in her life and allows us some latitude. But she’s taken to voicing “shoulds” that outdo how my parents once declaimed.

These weddings have brought out the worst in her tendency. She’s got all sorts of ideas about appropriate behavior and attire. She inherited money a couple of years ago and she’s been spending it in high-end boutiques. Hanging around with shop owners and “designers,” imbibing their narrow ideas.

For her nephew’s NY wedding, she dressed herself, her escort, and her sister (mother of the groom). Now she thinks she’s the wardrobe guru for my son’s affair. But Tilden Park is not New York. And Alex is nothing like Ted.

Now I’m the mother of the groom, and Dana thinks she is writing the book on MOG dressing. On the phone two days ago, she volunteered advice on the subject. Told me I needed a new outfit, of course. But it’s not that simple. Apparently, I have to find something that is duly formal, not stodgy but not too hip, nice enough that I appear attractive and confident and sophisticated but not so spectacular that I steal the spotlight from the bridal couple.

Like there’s a secret book, and I don’t have a copy. Like my parents trying to tell me how to dress when I went to high school. Dana knows I didn’t respond well to the parental attempts at sartorial guidance; why does she think I’ll listen to her?

And yesterday before we met for our walk and meal, when I told her over the phone that the couple have opted to have parents speak at the ceremony instead of some officiant, Dana leaped in with her opinion. Except her opinion sounded like she was laying down some rules on the subject. “Here’s what you need to keep in mind,” she said. And “you must remember that this ceremony is about them and not about you.” For the record, I’m aware of my role in this rite, I know my son and future daughter-in-law better than she does, and I’m pretty good with words and with public speaking.

WTF? I thought then. What’s gotten into her? But I met her four hours later anyway.

She was carrying iced coffee. She was abuzz with caffeine. She offered me the clear plastic container and said, “Ever since I got back into cocaine, I’ve been doing afternoon coffee. Hot or iced. I’m rediscovering how much I love to be amped up.”

Even with that, it took several hours before the (en)light(enment) bulb lit above my head.

Cocaine! Coffee. Mania. Maybe my best friend is being frequently obnoxiously opinionated and pushy because she’s sped out. Ya think?

I’m not sure the cause matters. The effect is what needs to be controlled. Dana’s landed on an inhospitable island, where there isn’t a good place to stand.