“Hey, Lisa,” my friend, Marcia approached me after our Boot Camp exercise class this week. “That dinner you told us about was at Castle Hill, right? I told my husband about it, and he just couldn’t believe it.”

I was taken aback. Marcia was referring to a story I’d told a few boot-campers recently, and I was touched that she found my tale interesting enough to tell her husband.

Call me pathetic, but this little crumb of social success felt like a breakthrough.

Even though my Navy husband retired after 28 active duty years and we now live in a tiny town in Rhode Island, I still have a military spouse’s mindset, prone to insecurity after so many military moves.

After every PCS move our family experienced, I’d turned into my middle-school-aged self. “Will anyone like me?” I’d wonder, awkward and uncertain. I’d eventually find my people, but it was never easy. Even after my husband’s military retirement and move to our current home, I’ve struggled to find close pals in my local community.

Since leaving base life, I’ve longed for one or two “kitchen door” friends. The kind that show up unannounced without makeup on. The kind that tell you the commissary is out of strawberries. The kind that let you vent about how long it took for your number to be called at the base pharmacy. The kind that let you be yourself and appreciate you for it.

About a year ago, I discovered that the local recreation center offered Boot Camp exercise classes, so I signed up and became a twice-a-week regular. I wanted to get in better shape, but the women in the class were equally interested in the social opportunity Boot Camp classes offered.

On Fridays after class, we’d all meet up at a local coffee shop for sweaty chat sessions. Over time, these little doses of camaraderie were like Prozac. I hadn’t found a kitchen door friend yet, but I’d found camaraderie.

Boot Camp classes were not in session over the recent holidays, so five of us met up on the morning of New Year’s Eve to make a feeble attempt at self-directed exercise before we gave up and headed to a coffee shop. After exercising, we opened a bottle of Prosecco one of the ladies had brought on a bench outside the rec center, hoping we wouldn’t get “busted” by any local cops. Giggling with my plastic cup and clowning around, I felt like a goofy middle-schooler, but in a good way.

At the coffee shop, I experienced a sense of comfort I hadn’t felt before, so I decided, for the first time with this group, to tell a meaty story.

I’ve always been a story-teller, sometimes to the chagrin of my audience, because I enhance every detail with elaborate descriptions, exaggerated hand gestures and facial expressions. I pride myself in telling a good story, but I don’t fully reveal this essential element of my personality until I can trust that listener will appreciate it. My best friends know that whether they laugh, cry, are fascinated or outraged, they will be entertained.

With the Prosecco’s liquid courage in my bloodstream, I relayed my story of the dinner at Castle Hill to my Boot Camp friends. To tell it right, it was necessary to transport my consciousness back to the evening in question and recount every detail. I was deep into my story-telling trance when I approached the plot’s climax, so I paused for dramatic effect.

In that brief moment of silence, my consciousness was restored. I glanced around at the four ladies, and realized that none of them was rolling her eyes, having a side conversation or falling asleep. They were looking right at me, frozen in suspense.

Then, I delivered the crucial pinnacle, and my friends gasped in disbelief. “What? Are you kidding? No way! That’s outrageous!” I walked home feeling great. I’d finally let go and was unguarded. I wanted to trust that my new friends’ appreciation of my authentic self was genuine.

“My husband couldn’t believe it when I told him your story!” Marcia said at Boot Camp this week, and then I knew for certain. I’d found my people.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com