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y friends and I are a fairly amazing bunch of women. We’ve got brains and dash, and a certain sleek je ne sais quoi reminiscent of Katharine Hepburn at her best. Among the four of us we possess: three kids, two successful businesses, one dog with a Gold Star Certificate from the Perfect Puppy Academy, three advanced degrees, and at least six lovely thighs (Meg refuses to let me count hers, for no good reason that I can see.) One of us is a dab hand with a chainsaw. Without a doubt, we are fabulous.

Yet at a recent social gathering (margaritas and games of Quelf were involved), we calculated that as a group, we have spent approximately 14 years of our lives nursing broken hearts. Fourteen years.

All that time, staring into space like shell-shocked bush babies. Bursting into sobs when a waiter asks what we’d like for lunch. Knowing beyond doubt that we were flabby warthogs who would never be loved. Wondering if warthogs were allowed to join enclosed religious orders.

Of course, we’d supported each other through all the breakups and betrayals and bad choices. But often we had to do it long-distance, when the exigencies of adult life kept us scattered across the map. Moments like this—when all four of us could be together in the same room—were no longer something we could take for granted. As the evening went on, full of silliness and warmth and good conversation, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia. I missed those leisurely childhood afternoons on the playground, when my friends and I shared an idyllic world of lighthearted fun. Back when we felt free to hit boys with a shovel if they bugged us.

Why can’t we feel like that now? I wondered.

A while back, I fell in love with a guy I’ll call Cuthbert. (Not, alas, his real name.) He was sweet and gorgeous and sensitive, as smart as Gore Vidal and as charismatic as Barack Obama. He had the sexiest laugh ever—sort of a low, wicked chuckle, like a pirate trying to behave in polite company. He thought I was a goddess. For a year or so, we were idiotically happy. We moved to Europe together out of sheer exuberance.

Then one morning Cuthbert—the only man I’d ever seriously considered marrying—walked up and handed me an actual plane ticket for a destination on the other side of the planet. “Ciao, cherie,” he said. “Je me suis fiancé avec une mannequin de lingerie de dix-huit ans.” (Translation: “I am a sadistic weasel, and you never noticed! Ha, ha, ha!”)

So there I was, huddled in my aisle seat, feeling a tide of heartbreak rising in my soul.

I don’t need to tell you what it’s like: the grief, the rage, the self-loathing, the obsessive obsessing, the overwhelming urge to send him a little birthday present. Nothing fancy, no strings: just, oh—say, a new Jaguar in his favorite color. One sobs. One clings. Eventually one’s tear ducts start to develop calluses.

Brave creatures that we are, we’ll often try to snap out of it through sheer will power. “Fine,” you say to yourself, “So what if [insert creep’s name] has vanished forever from my life? Time to finish composing my rock opera.” But you can’t help noticing that some inconsiderate person has left an ax embedded in your chest, which makes it kind of hard to get up in the morning. Even dressing is a challenge with that thing sticking out of your sternum. After a while it just seems easier to lie there like roadkill.

So what can we do? I looked around the table at my wonderful friends. All having a great time together. Meg had just made Kate laugh so hard that margarita came out her nose.

And in that instant I saw the answer: We have to regress.

Somewhere around the age of nine, we girls get life down to a fine art. We know exactly who we are and what we like. We never wait by the phone, torture our eyebrows or deny ourselves a health-giving slab of chocolate cake. No. At that age we’re too busy:

1.  writing poetry
2.  having burping contests with our friends and really trying to win
3.  proving Fermat’s Last Theorem
4.  building the ultimate cat gymnasium
5.  being an international spy

Then, somewhere around twelve, the hormones hit and we forget it all. Now, hormones aren’t all bad. Without them we wouldn’t be able to fall in love, make children or prance around in Dolce & Gabbana bras. On the other hand, we wouldn’t be handing over all our self-esteem to some out-of-work actor named Banjo, either.

Makes you think.

In the days after the Quelf party, I kept on thinking. I decided that I was going to remember all those girlhood delights, dreams and enthusiasms. I was going to give them serious attention and respect. And I was going to start building them back into my life. I’m now a volunteer cat-socializer at an animal shelter. I’m taking a gymnastics class for adults. I’m rereading all the Sherlock Holmes stories. And of course, I’m spending as much time as possible having fun with my friends. My heart feels much better—and I still have a lot more childhood left to explore.

Start a secret club. Wear a tiara. Frolic in the mud. Grab your best friend and just play. Does the thought of it make you feel shy? Embarrassed? Worried that some concerned bystander is about to sneak up on you with a straitjacket? No matter. Simply continue gluing chocolate chips onto your friend’s face in a decorative mosaic.

Underneath all the static about sex and romance—under all the pain, the obsessing and the heartbreak—our own melody is still quietly playing. All we have to do is tune in.

Elizabeth Shipley is a writer and stage actor in Santa Cruz, California. Together with two close friends, she is currently sword-fighting with sticks out in the backyard.