MWF Seeking BFF

by Rachel Bertsche

  Ever heard a painfully forced conversation? Welcome.

  “I am just not that interesting. I am always fascinated by people who follow their dreams like you have. I was raised to go the safe money-making route, so I think you are really interesting. You are very funny.” Yes. Thank you. You said that already. “I am so pleased for you.”

  Oh, wow. She doesn’t use contractions. That’s the mystery speech tic. Talking with someone who never utters a contraction—no “let’s” or “can’t” or “didn’t”—is surprisingly jarring.

  After a bit of prying, I get Wendy to tell me about herself. She’s engaged and has lived in Chicago for four years. She’s in a book club but usually doesn’t like the books. Most recently, she couldn’t finish Let the Great World Spin, which I’m in the middle of and loving.

  “Cheating makes me uncomfortable,” she says.

  “Is there a lot of cheating in the book?”

  “There are prostitutes.” Hmmm. Okay then. She does, however, really enjoy the Real Housewives series. “Except fictional fighting makes me anxious.” I don’t even mention that the Housewives are, at least in theory, nonfiction. “So tell me more about you. I think you are so funny.”

  The third time it’s creepy. Granted, I love being told I’m funny. It’s a great compliment. But there’s something about the way Wendy keeps repeating herself that makes me nervous. She’s like a combination of a superfan and The Cable Guy.

  I spend a large chunk of the evening praying for it to be over. Considering I’ve been doing this for over four months, and this is only my second truly bad date (the first being the two-on-one dinner with Heidi and Michelle), I’ve had a pretty good run. I finally understand that gouge-my-eyes-out bad-date pain my single friends regularly endure. It’s the same anxiety I get during long and seemingly pointless office meetings. The … seconds … pass … so … slowly.

  Eventually, our check comes. My half—for the single glass of wine and broiled salmon—is fifty dollars.

  Financially, this search hasn’t been easy. Pinot grigio and spicy tuna rolls don’t come cheap. When the where-to-go suggestion falls to me, I usually throw out my go- to date spots, both of which are nice enough but not fancy, allow for sharing, and have cheap appetizer options that can take the place of an entrée. But I’d rather deflect the decision to my date. I try to be easygoing, and a simple “I’ll eat anything, do you have a place you like?” helps establish me as a low-maintenance pal. It’s a first impression I strive for in friendship. Don’t want to be too difficult too early. Plus, I still feel like I’m in the discovery phase with this city, so I’m happy to explore new options. But deferring the decision-making comes with some risk. I may end up paying fifty dollars for salmon when I’d rather drop ten dollars for a shared hummus platter.

  I wonder if romantic-daters have this problem. My friends on Match.com go in phases where they seem to date for a living. It’s a multiple-times-a-week affair. But because they are women, the cost of first dates probably doesn’t fall to them. In the friend-dating world, we’re almost always splitting the bill. Which means I probably have it easier than some guys—the entire meal isn’t on me—but fifty-two friend-dates over the course of the year adds up.

  A quick email to my single guy-friends garners some thoughtful input. “Simply put, there is nothing else I would rather spend my money on than dating women while being single,” one serial-dater tells me. “Every guy thinks about the cost of dating in a business context. It may sound crazy but it’s all about the Return on Investment: What did I spend and what did I get out of it? It’s not just about sexual ROI but also emotional ROI.” The email reeks of the male brain, but he’s got a point. Let’s say my friend-dates cost, on average, twenty-five dollars. That means by the end of this year I’ll have spent thirteen hundred dollars on friendship. Let’s round up to twenty-five hundred dollars for all the follow-up dates, plus the classes and events (yoga, book club) I’ve tried, and those I still hope to take on, to help me meet people. That’s a huge chunk of change. But if I come out of this year with a handful of new close friends, I’ll be significantly happier and healthier. A number of studies have shown that having strong friendships is more likely to make a person happy than is having money. Is my health and happiness worth twenty-five hundred dollars? I’d say yes. It’s cheaper than the costs that accompany the health risks of loneliness, that’s for sure.

  This whole year is an investment—of both cash and time—in my future. I recently read that having more friends when you’re young translates to more money later on. Each high school student in a study (all of whom were male) was asked to name his three best friends from his senior class. Those people whose names were listed the most were considered the ones with the most friends. Per the study, “One additional friendship nomination in high school is associated with a 2 percent higher wage thirty-five years later.” Granted I’m not in high school, but it’ll have a similar effect eventually, right? Right?

  I put my half of the hundred-dollar bill on my credit card, and Wendy and I head to the exit. There is no hug. Her formality doesn’t lend itself to touchy-feeliness, so I follow her lead. She gives me her card, and I give my ticket to the parking valet. Another ten dollars down. Wendy and I part ways with no suggestions of “let’s do this again” or “I’ll call you.” It’s better this way. There’s no concern of how to get out of a next date and it’s clear she didn’t have a great time, either. Knowing it was mutual makes me feel better. Sometimes you just don’t have that spark.

  “Do you have another friend-date on Friday?” Matt asks me when I get home from the date gone wrong. I’ve collapsed on the couch in front of his SportsCenter, exhausted from the mental energy required to keep a dying conversation alive for ninety minutes.

  “Not as of now.”

  “Want to go on a husband date?”

  “I’d love to!”

  I may not be keen on reigniting the spark with Wendy, but the one with my husband? That one I’d like to afford some attention. Dating other women some six nights a week doesn’t leave all that much time for romance. And we’re still in our first year of wedded bliss. All those oh-so-hilarious jokes about marriage being the end of your sex life are great and all, but I’m not interested in becoming another punch line.

  As men go, Matt’s a romantic. He’s never forgotten to get me flowers on Valentine’s Day, and he even sometimes buys me jewelry just because. (I know! And no, you cannot have him.) But I’m the planner in the house, especially these days. That he is initiating a date night is all the romance I need. Well, almost all.

  “I was thinking we could go to that new restaurant Gilt Bar.” He’s even thought of a restaurant. In advance.

  Friends, shmends. I’ve got a hot date.

  On Friday at 11 A.M., I get an email from Hilary. “You want to grab dinner tonight? I know it’s last minute—I actually have a friend’s b-day party but do not want to go out at 10 P.M. I’m too old for this nonsense. Plus, I have so much to do tomorrow. Say yes!”

  My initial reaction? Annoyance. My internal thought process goes something like this: “You can’t just ask me at the last minute! People have lives, we need to plan!” As much as I’d love to see Hilary, Matt’s already made our reservation. He’d probably be fine if I canceled in the name of friendship—I have a one-year-only pass—but I’m looking forward to this dinner probably more than he is. Why can’t she ever make plans in advance?

  And then suddenly I feel like one of those cartoon characters, getting bonked in the face at the same time the light-bulb appears over my head. Isn’t this what I said I wanted? I launched a search for a BFF with the definition of “someone I can call for a pedicure in thirty minutes.” So why, when a new friend emails me for last-minute plans, is my first reaction one of frustration?

  Probably because, if I’m really being honest with myself, I’m not an especially spontaneous person. I was once. Maybe in fourth grade. Back when I had no responsibilities or commitm
ents and could call Katie, the BFF of the day, and say, “I have nothing to do. Want to go to the mall?” But now there’s always something to do. Work. Exercise. Matt.

  An inherent problem in this search might be that I’m looking for the types of friendships I made when I was a kid, but I’m 28. Childhood friendships aren’t available to me now. Bummer, perhaps, but true, and no amount of “Can Lucy come out and play?” is going to change that.

  I like having plans. I like keeping them. Even if said plan is to spend an uninterrupted hour watching Friday Night Lights. If I pass the day excited about solo time on the couch with a glass of wine, pad thai, and Tim Riggins, it’s hard to shift gears and muster up enthusiasm for an invitation when it comes my way. That’s changing of course. If I want my new friends to continue inviting me out, I need to say yes as often as I can, enthusiasm or not. If Matt and I weren’t having date night I’d surely accept Hilary’s invitation. But spontaneity isn’t my natural state, and friendship goes two ways. I can’t require a BFF to always be available in thirty minutes, and then get miffed if she reaches out in the morning for dinner seven hours later. And I can’t strive for a spontaneous friendship when impulsiveness isn’t really my thing.

  The reality is that I don’t need someone who’s perpetually available for a spur-of-the-moment road trip—does that person even exist?—just someone I feel comfortable inviting if I decide to embark on such a journey. It’s like I said about Jillian. With two kids and a full-time job she probably can’t be a last-minute friend—she may even cancel more than others—but if I’m okay to call and invite myself over, then I’ll have reached a pretty good place.

  I write Hilary a simple “I’d love to, but Matt and I have dinner reservations. We need to get together soon! Rain check?” in response to her message. We’ve scheduled a walk for tomorrow, but the email exchange has me rethinking my definition of BFF. Maybe it’s not necessarily someone I call for brunch on Sunday morning. That’s only one type of friend. Hilary’s obviously good for last-minute plans, and I’m at a place where I would call her for an afternoon movie, but that alone doesn’t make her my best friend. I wouldn’t yet go to her with my problems or ask her to dinner with my mom. If I had to find a wedding dress today, I wouldn’t invite her along for the shopping trip.

  Maybe it’s more of a comfort-level thing. My new BFF will be someone I’m totally myself with. No need to be “on.” No stress during lunch dates, wondering what to say next to keep the conversation flowing. The last-minute phone call is really just a manifestation of comfort, anyway. Does it feel natural to invite her to drinks in an hour? Am I at ease hanging at her house, watching TV in silence? Would I be okay crying to her if something went really wrong?

  I distinctly recall hanging out at Sara’s house as a kid, running around singing at the top of my lungs and dancing like a maniac, just being silly, and actually noting that her apartment was the only place other than home that I behaved like this. I once even told her as much. “I only act this goofy at your house!” Little did I know when I was 12 that I had discovered the secret of friendship. When I found myself behaving the same way with my closest high school friends years later, I knew they were keepers, too. Even the men in my life have been measured by this standard. Do I sing at the top of my lungs in his car? Must be love.

  On the way home from Gilt Bar, Matt drives as I belt it with Lea Michele and Idina Menzel to the Glee rendition of “Poker Face.” If he doesn’t enjoy my vocal stylings, I’m too lost in song to notice. Earlier tonight, when I mentioned I turned down plans with Hilary to keep our date, Matt said I didn’t need to, but we’re both happy I did. Mushroom truffle pasta, Hawaiian snapper, and a few glasses of wine do a couple good.

  “I love you,” he says as he reaches for my hand.

  “I love you, too.” Whoever says you can’t balance rich friendships and a hot marriage clearly hasn’t tried.

  Remember Kim? The girl I met at cooking class last year? The one who called the prospect of hanging out with me, a new friend, “refreshing”? I’ve been trying to schedule a follow-up since our very successful—or so I thought—first date, but have been struggling to get something on the books. She says she’s swamped with work, so it’s been two months since we’ve seen each other. Not the best start for our BFFship. Or maybe no one told her we’re supposed to be best friends?

  For our second date I suggested Kim and I try out another cooking class. Apparently we weren’t the only Chicagoans with this idea, because I’ve now been wait-listed twice. Top Chef has really done wonders for culinary education.

  Since the nearby cooking school’s Wine & Dine Girls’ Night didn’t pan out, Kim has invited me to a friend’s birthday party. I feel a little uncomfortable crashing a celebratory dinner for someone I don’t know, but Kim insists it’s fine so here I am, standing on the sidewalk in front of De Cero, a Mexican restaurant, waiting for my girl-date. When she arrives and escorts me to our table, I see that this isn’t a party in the invite-everyone-you-know-please-split-the-check-twenty-ways sense. There are only five of us. I’ve infiltrated a Sex and the City–style girls’ night.

  The first thing I notice: I’m the only white girl. It’s a first for me. Kim, Laura, and Alicia, the birthday girl, are African American. Shilpa is Indian. It’s anecdotal proof of research I read when I started this search, which found that minorities are more open to friends outside their race than white people are. I don’t like it, but the truth is I infrequently end up at dinners with more than two races represented. Which is just embarrassing. Needless to say I’m pleased, as I’m hoping this dinner will be an opportunity to change that.

  The second thing I notice: Laura doesn’t want me here. “So, how did you get here again?”

  “Oh, Kim and I had tentative plans to take a cooking class tonight, but we were wait-listed so she invited me here instead.”

  “Huh.”

  The frosty breeze coming from her direction makes clear she doesn’t understand why a new girl is at her friend’s birthday dinner. I can’t say I totally blame her. I’d probably find it odd, too. You know, if the stranger wasn’t me.

  But Alicia, the birthday girl, seems perfectly pleased to have me. She and Shilpa are hilarious and the evening is full, mostly, of sex talk. There’s much discussion of a gentleman who wanted, as Shilpa so eloquently put it, to “do it in the rear.” Kim tells us she’s dating a white guy for the first time. There are a lot of margaritas, laughter, and toasts.

  While the other ladies are discussing work matters, I ask Kim how she’s been.

  “Good. Busy,” she says. “I’ve been going home to St. Louis a lot to see my father. He’s ill so I try to get back there when I can.” She mentioned when we first met that he was sick, but only in passing. At the time she didn’t seem like she wanted to discuss it so I didn’t pry.

  “I’m sorry to hear he’s not doing well.”

  “Thanks. He has a blood cancer, he was okay for a while but lately has been having a hard time.”

  “What kind of cancer is it?” I’m not sure if this qualifies as prying, but I have to ask.

  “It’s called multiple myeloma, it’s a cancer of the blood cells, it—”

  “That’s what my dad had.” I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t want to scare her with the news of my father’s death, but I can’t not tell her. And it’s too strange a coincidence. Myeloma—a cancer of the plasma cells—has an incidence of only 4 in 100,000. Even if it’s just a similarity, not a sign, it’s a surprising one.

  “Really? That’s so weird,” she says. “I’ve never even met anyone who knew what it was.”

  “I know, me neither really.” I’m still unsure of what to say. Just because my father died doesn’t mean hers will, and I don’t want to be a downer. But it’s going to come up—I can’t pretend he survived, that would just be weird. I’m hoping that from my use of past tense—“what my dad had”—she’ll get the picture.

  “So what happened with your fath
er?”

  “Well, he died almost four years ago, but he lived with it for seven years.” I emphasize the second half—the good news.

  “That’s encouraging. My dad was diagnosed about three years ago and they said that might be all the time he had.”

  It’s pretty heavy conversation for a margarita-and-nachos birthday dinner, but it’s one of the first true heart-to-hearts I’ve had with any of my new friends. That we’ve both been unlucky enough to deal with this will link us forever, I’m sure. It’s the same survivor bond I shared with Alison after her father died a few months ago, even though Kim’s father is still alive. Social identity support and all. I recently read a Psychology Today article about breast cancer survivors similarly connecting. “Though the women no longer have breast cancer and have continued with family and careers, their social identity as survivors often remains so powerful that their primary bonds of friendship are with other survivors, the only people who can understand what they’ve been through and grasp their perspective on life.” This is how I felt with Alison after her father died, and now with Kim. I tell her that if she ever wants to talk, I’m around, and offer my mother’s services as a walking multiple myeloma encyclopedia. She’s become an expert on just about every medication and treatment option out there.

  The next day I reiterate as much in an email. Three days later, Kim writes me back. “It is pretty remarkable that we share similar experiences with something so rare. I’m really still wrapping my mind around that. I feel as if we were destined to meet, it’s so crazy how this has all come about! I don’t know if I mentioned it, but I’m planning for my dad to visit in a few weeks. He’s not been up to Chicago to visit and it would be a great getaway for him. If he continues to feel up for the trip, I would love for you to meet him, if you’re in town.”

  Aside from being a touching email—finding Kim was destiny!—it’s a huge step in my friend-dating career. Meeting the parents is one of the most significant dating milestones on record. It’s usually a ten-to-fifteen-dates-in move, and we’ve only been out twice.