MWF Seeking BFF

by Rachel Bertsche

  At the end of the evening Jen turns to Alison. “Can you drive me around Saturday so I can pick up some stuff for my party?”

  The request is so nonchalant. Just a favor between best friends. There was no “This is probably a huge pain but …” or “Can you do me the biggest favor in the world?” Just “Can you drive me around?” No big thing. That’s what I want! I want to drive someone on errands! That is friendship. I think about offering to be said driver, but bite my tongue. “Hi, I know this is the first time we’ve hung out in, like, ever, but I’ll give up my Saturday to be your chauffeur!” I’ve learned to avoid overt signs of friendship desperation.

  The next day, I get on Facebook to do some detective work. A quick peek through Alison’s pictures tells me she went to visit Molly in Atlanta not too long ago. There was no falling-out. I wonder what this means for our relationship. Will it be impossible for us to be close? Maybe, but probably not. Molly lives far away and if they’ve been told not to mention her, at least they haven’t been asked to avoid me. Or if they have, they didn’t listen. They probably just don’t want to betray their friend. I can respect that, even if I’m denied not-at-all-valuable-but-still-fascinating information. It speaks highly of how they’ll treat me if this friendship develops. As Joseph Epstein writes in Friendship: An Exposé, “Considering the obligations owed to genuine friends, at a minimum I should say that loyalty, or at least the absence of betrayal, is among them.”

  The biggest barrier to bestfriendship with these two is the fact that they’ve already got a tight-knit local group. There are two other girls from their college crowd in town, plus Alison has a twin sister. Their friendship slots might call for impressive résumés.

  FRIEND-DATE 9. Becca. Friend of a friend. Actually, she’s the friend of two friends. On paper, she’s just like me. Similar upbringing, except she was raised in a Chicago suburb rather than a New York one. In person, she’s … nice. Still, the most exciting part of the date was my Asian chicken salad.

  Moving right along …

  On the night of Jen’s birthday party, Matt and I are among the first to arrive. We set up shop near the kitchen and chat with Alison and other former classmates. It’s a pleasant low-key evening. On our way out, I stop to say goodbye to Jen. She pulls me aside. “Just after we had dinner, Alison’s father died,” she tells me.

  “Wait, what? After we had dinner last week?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I know. It happened the next day. We’re trying to support her, but we don’t really know what to say. I thought maybe, since you’ve been through it …”

  “Of course. I’ll reach out.”

  On the way home, I think about the news. How was Alison at the party only a week later? What happened? I think about how strange it is that I mentioned my dad, and Matt’s, at dinner, and how unfortunately this is probably my in. It reminds me of the Grey’s Anatomy episode that aired just after my own father died, when Christina welcomes George into the Dead Dads Club. It’s not a fun crowd to belong to, but there’s a bond between members. This really does feel like social identity support in action. Somber as it may be, I identify among the fatherless. In my twenties, I don’t have many friends who can relate.

  On Monday morning, I send Alison a condolence email. After the standard “I’m so sorry,” I write: “I know you have tons of close friends here in Chicago, but if you ever want to talk to someone who’s been through the same thing pretty recently (twice, sorta), I’m always here. Or, if you want to sit around and watch The Office and not talk about it, I’m good at that, too.” Researchers say you’re more likely to find satisfaction from supporting others than from getting support yourself, and in this moment I recognize how true that is. Alison may not be my best friend, she may never be, but it feels good to engage in some real friendship behaviors. To lend a hand and say, “Hi. I’m here.”

  I get a message the next day that, yes, Alison would love to get together. “I meant to tell you Saturday, but there’s no easy way to do it, especially at a party,” she writes. “It would be really nice to talk to someone who’s been through this. Everyone has been really great, but most people (thankfully) can’t relate and so I find myself not talking about it a lot when I probably should.” We make plans to have lunch.

  Because the universe is bizarre, that same day I notice the Facebook status of another former college classmate, Katherine. It reads: “Dad’s final mention in The Washington Post. Fitting it should be above the fold.” The link brings me to her father’s obituary. Katherine and I weren’t good friends at school, but we worked on a group project together and had always liked each other. Just a few months ago I ran into her at our college reunion and she made some vague reference to getting cupcakes together at the bakery on my corner sometime. I decide to write her an email, and then immediately feel like a dirty ambulance-chaser. Is this my friend-making approach? Find people whose fathers have recently kicked the bucket and prey on their need to talk? Ew.

  I write the email anyway. Even if my motives are 75 percent selfish, I appreciated all the messages I got after my dad died, and extending an offer of support is the nice thing to do. If I get a new friend out of it, so much the better. I compose a similar email to the one I wrote Alison. I hit send. I never hear back.

  When Alison and I meet for lunch, we share some small talk before getting into the deep stuff. She tells me, clearly embarrassed, that even though it has been two weeks she still thinks about her father every day.

  “Alison! Two weeks? That’s, like, zero time,” I say. “And it doesn’t go away, at least not for a while. My dad died three and a half years ago and I still think about him at least once a day.”

  She seems both disappointed and pleased to hear it. Her father’s death was sudden, he wasn’t sick for seven years like my dad was, so she hadn’t prepped for this grief—if one can ever really prepare for such a thing. Alison wells up as she talks about her dad not walking her down the aisle, I mention how bummed I am that my kids won’t have a Grandpa. We laugh at how uncomfortable people get even saying the word “father” in our presence. Just last week a coworker said to me: “I went home and was watching TV with my dad—oh, God, sorry …”

  It’s a nice, if sad, meal. We part with a hug and my reiteration that she can call or email if she ever wants to talk. I don’t know if she’ll reach out, but I do feel like we’ve made a small connection.

  Jen and Alison. Add them to the promising pile.

  The thing about the ever-growing list of potential friends is that that’s all it is. After two months, Alison’s the only best friend prospect I’ve gone out with more than once. I’ve spent time with Hannah at book clubs, but everyone else has so far been a one-hit wonder. I had this idea that once I reached out and got the first girl-date on the books, it would get easier. I made the first move, so they’d make the second. Reciprocation is a primary rule of friendship. But here’s the thing—these people aren’t my friends yet, so the rules don’t apply. I can’t expect them to start calling me for brunch dates after only one meeting. It’d be nice, but it’s not required. When it comes to friend-dating, I think I’ve been screwed by romance. Women are used to being the askees, not the askers. You can tell me twenty-first-century women are a different breed, but not the women I know. We want to be pursued. It’s flattering to feel like we’re wanted. But what happens when two women are trying to build a relationship? Then what? You’ve got two BFF-wannabes, waiting by the phone for the other one to call.

  There’s a theory in social psychology called the familiarity principle. The more you see someone, the more you’ll like her. It kind of makes me want to stand on the corner near Hannah’s and Hilary’s apartments and coincidentally bump into them on their way to work. Every day. Except I think that’s called stalking.

  The familiarity principle is a good argument for why I need to keep pursuing the friends I’m interested in. If they don’t reach out, it’s not that they don’t like me (well, not necessarily), but that I’m not t
op of mind. I need to be more familiar.

  I decide to institute a new plan. For the friends with potential, I will follow up at least once. Two or three times if I really want this bestfriendship to happen. At that point, if she still isn’t reaching out I can give up. It can’t be a one-way street forever.

  FRIEND-DATES 10 AND 11. The common thread with potential best friends one through nine is that I shared a mutual acquaintance or network (school, camp, book club) with each. I figured this would be helpful in forging a bond. It’s always nice to have a friend in common, a way to assure ourselves that the maybe-BFF isn’t a serial killer. That’s why the name game is usually one of our first exchanges when I meet someone new. It puts the other person in context and gives me somewhere to go for the real scoop. “What’s the deal with her husband?” “Is she open to new friends?” “Is she my type?”

  Research backs this up. In the early 1900s, a German sociologist put forth the theory of triadic closure: that one’s friends will find it easy to become friends with each other. These days, scientists use Facebook and the like to prove the theory’s validity. They say triadic closure helps explain exclusionary social cliques and why we tend toward building social networks rather than a smattering of individual friendships.

  That’s all great, and makes good sense. But I’m getting tired of mutual friend setups. They may help widen networks, but they come with baggage. Stories we’ve heard about each other, judgments that have been passed, endless chatter about people and places in common rather than any substantial conversation. My next two dates, Margot and Kim, are totally new. There are no preconceived notions of who the other one is. I met Margot over a year ago. She was the salesgirl on duty when I bought my wedding dress. We clicked and exchanged emails dancing around the topic of getting together, but it never happened. The same was true of Kim. We met in a cooking class, hit it off, exchanged contact information, and then never used it. I’ve sent each of them my “I’m finally following through” email and they seemed genuinely pleased to hear from me. Kim even wrote, “It will be refreshing to hang out with someone new.” Score.

  Now I’ve got plans with both and am jumping out of my seat at the idea of meeting people with a completely clean slate. I’m like a kindergartner at the bus stop on the first day of school. We have no mutual friends in Chicago that we’ll feel obligated to invite along when we want to hang out. Our opinions of each other won’t be tainted by any rumblings from others that Margot’s “nice but ditzy” or Kim’s “awesome but a selfish friend” or Rachel’s “funny but snappy sometimes.” Good or bad, we can find it all out on our own.

  Basically I want a BFF to myself. Again, I’m like a kindergartner on the first day of school. I’m not interested in sharing.

  I feel like these new potential buddies bring the possibility of a whole new Chicago. After only two months I’m eager, not nervous, to meet virtual strangers. I think they call this progress.

  The date with Margot is first. We arrive at Market, the restaurant next to my office, at 6:30. We don’t leave until 10. At dinner, she chats up the waiter until we’ve been blessed with free drinks. I’m in awe. I’m the girl who’s overly polite to wait-staff, lest they hock a loogie in my soup, but I’m no good at, nor have I ever really tried, befriending them. I feel a little like the nerdy kid in school who’s been adopted by the cool girl, even if Margot is three years younger.

  Other than the fact that we’re both white, Margot and I couldn’t be more different. She’s a pastor’s daughter from Ohio, the middle child of eight kids. She got engaged at 18, then broke it off before meeting the boyfriend with whom she moved to Chicago. She sells wedding dresses and knows pretty much every style number by heart (I learn this when I test her, as I’ve been trying to identify a dress I tried on that Callie wants for her upcoming wedding. When I show her the iPhone picture of me wearing it, she says, “Oh, Angel Sanchez, style #n3006.” Impressive).

  “So, then, do you love Say Yes to the Dress?” I figure we should get to the important stuff first and I’ve been known to waste hours in front of the TLC reality show.

  “I can’t watch it. Too close to home,” she says. “But I can tell you it’s absolutely accurate.”

  We discuss religion. “I am, I think, an agnostic Jew,” I tell her. (If I’m not even sure of that, does that make me an agnostic agnostic?) “You?”

  “I’m … spiritual,” she says. “I definitely believe in God, but I don’t love organized religion.”

  Then Margot throws me for a loop. “Oooh, I’ve got a great one,” she says, bouncing in her seat with excitement. “Do you believe in soul mates?”

  You mean, like us?

  I don’t actually say that. But I want to. Instead I spend a moment formulating my answer, as if the fate of our friendship rests on my response. I decide to quote one of my favorite movies, Kissing Jessica Stein. “I don’t believe there’s just one person. I think there are, like, seven.” She agrees. Phew.

  Jessica Stein was referring to romantic partners, but her wisdom applies to my search, too. When I tell family and friends about the plan, they always ask: “What if you meet the one at, say, date ten? Will you stop?” The answer is no. There’s room for more than one best friend in my life. I could have, like, seven. Just as I don’t want to put everything on Matt—I need a BFF so I don’t dump everything on him—I’m nervous to invest everything into one friend. What if she moves away? I start a new search? A few supertight friendships would be ideal. If I come out of this year with five women I’m comfortable calling just to say hi, I’d consider it a great success.

  The dinner with Kim is in some ways a repeat of Margot. We’re back at Market, though at the bar rather than a booth. (I think the waiters and hostess are beginning to recognize me. They must either think I’m the most popular girl in Chicago or a lesbian seriously looking for The One. Either option is far less embarrassing than the truth: “I’m here auditioning best friends forever!”) Because we have no common social network, Kim and I discuss career goals and relationships. She’s as great as I remember. The day we first met, I called Matt on the way home to brag. “I got a number!” Back then, I’d just gotten engaged, so now I tell her about my wedding and she tells me about the guy who accompanied her to that Seafood 101 class. “Turns out he was a loser,” she says. Okay then.

  One of the great differences between Kim and me is that she’s African American. Before my dinner with Margot, almost all the girls I’d met were Jewish, and all of them were white. Not by choice, but I guess when you’re set up by friends who fit that description, often their friends fit the same bill. I’m white and Jewish, most of my closest friends are, too, so it’s not a huge shocker that early in my search that’s who I ended up meeting. But ten dates in I need some change. And I’m not particularly proud of the fact that I have only a few black friends, so I’d be thrilled to add some diversity.

  I’m not alone in having a limited number of friends outside my race. In 2004, only 15 percent of Americans reported having at least one confidante of another ethnicity (up from 9 percent in 1985). Among college students arriving on campus, race and living proximity are the two strongest indicators of who your friends will be. I’m not out of the ordinary in my same-race friendships, but in this case, I’d like to be the unusual one. That statistic isn’t very encouraging. I’m not going to befriend someone I wouldn’t otherwise, solely based on skin color. But would I be happy if one of my best friends ended up being black? Or, just not white? Yes.

  Kim has a friend in town from college so when he arrives, I take my cue to leave. I don’t want them to have to catch up while simultaneously babysitting a new pal. And I’m heading out of town this weekend, so I’ve still got to pack.

  As I head to my car, I think about the last two girl-dates and that old adage, “don’t talk about politics or religion around the dinner table.” It’s oft-given first-date advice, but science has proven it invalid. A recent study, which looked at how happiness correlate
d with conversation topic, found that the happiest people in the experiment engaged in one-third as much small talk and twice as many substantive conversations. I certainly found that to be true with my last two dates, though it’s important to acknowledge that they shared my politics, if not my religion. Had we fallen on opposites sides of the Sarah Palin fence, I could be telling a whole different story.

  I guess it’s a risk-reward thing. When you go on a friend-date with someone completely disconnected from your life—where there’s no triadic closure—there’s a bigger risk that the date could be a bust. There’s no third party saying “You two will make a good fit.” No one’s vouching for her sanity. But what you stand to gain might be greater than what you can get from a setup: Instead of widening an existing social network, you could be creating an entirely new one. Instead of spending the first half hour playing the name game, you could have an entire evening of substantive conversation. Both types of friends have merit, of course. There’s no saying that a friend of a friend can’t be The One. But my dinners with Margot and Kim were decidedly different than with Hannah and Hilary and Jen-Alison. Still, they’re all on the follow-up sheet.

  A few days later, I’m ditching cold Chicago and heading to Miami for a friend’s wedding. Emily was one of my best friends in high school. Back then, we were the only two of our crowd who lived in Westchester, a suburb of New York City, rather than in the city itself. We drove to school together every morning, had “Dawson’s Creek Parties” on Tuesday nights, and showed up at a moment’s notice if anything went wrong. She was the one by my side the night my high school boyfriend broke up with me, which, at the time, I believed was the single biggest tragedy to ever befall my existence. She still lives in New York City, of course, and hangs out with plenty of friends from high school. Callie will be there with her fiancé, Nate, as will my close friend Jill.