In college especially, the “which friends should I invite to dinner with my visiting parents” question was a big one. They would offer a dorm-food reprieve and treat the chosen few to dinner at a nice restaurant. Plus, they’d get a sampling of the most important people in my life. That Kim wants me to meet her father is flattering. Clearly we’re on the same page.
I read Matt the email and he immediately adopts his announcer voice. “And Kim’s pulling ahead! Watch out Jillian …”
Warm weather, one might think, should lend itself to making friends. After eight months of hibernating, Chicagoans are out in full force. A walk along the lake might find me clearing the path for a unicycler, dodging cops on Segways, playing Frogger with countless runners and shying away from no less than a dozen dogs. (I’m determined to get over my thorny relationship with canines, as they are perhaps the best wingmen. The pet-owners in my life have promised that a single trip to the dog park could produce at least a few BFF prospects.) The streets are teeming with ladies just waiting for me to make my move, and they’ll be so drunk on sunlight they may not even get creeped out. Yet it’s only the end of May and I can see the upcoming summer season will pose some problems.
In our house, summer is synonymous with travel. Too much time away is going to cramp my friend-making style, but I don’t have much choice in the matter. Over the next few months we’re scheduled for two out-of-town weddings, a family trip to Vegas, a long weekend in Cape Cod, and, to cap it all off, our one-year-postponed honeymoon. Croatia here we come.
First up is a friendship throwback of the highest order. My ten-year high school reunion.
Matt’s opted out of this trip, and no amount of guilting could get him to change his mind. It’s my own fault, really, because I initially told him I didn’t care if he came. And I really didn’t. I wasn’t even playing that “I’ll say I don’t care but really I do so this is a test to make sure you love me enough” game. Until I found out my friends’ husbands and fiancés would be in attendance. Then I cared, and asked Matt to come, but he made some good arguments—“I’m traveling the next two weekends”—and some questionable ones—“I’m a lawyer, Rachel, I need to be available.” In the end I’m at O’Hare solo, getting ready to board a flight to LaGuardia, where Callie and Nate will be waiting.
“Hey, Rachel. Made any friends lately?” I’m surprised to see Ben, a former classmate of mine who I haven’t spoken to since, oh, sophomore year, standing beside me at the gate. He’s about thirty pounds lighter than I remember, but otherwise looks exactly the same. Eighteen to 28 must not be prime getting-fat-and-bald years.
“Oh! Ben! Uh, hi. Yeah, um, I’ve made some friends.”
“I read your blog.”
“Clearly. Thanks.” This is without question the longest conversation we’ve ever had. “How’s your biking?”
Facebook has basically made high school reunions obsolete. Ben and I, who are online friends but have never actually seen each other in the three years we’ve overlapped in the Midwest, know the big-picture themes of each other’s lives because they pop up in our newsfeeds. He’s always posting stuff about cycling that I don’t totally understand—I think he’s a racer?—and I only add status updates when I link to my blog.
Two hours later, Ben and I walk the halls of LaGuardia together. His parents’ car is right behind Callie and Nate’s, and Cal gets out to greet him.
“Ben! Happy reunion!” She gives him a hug. Callie loves seeing people she was never really friends with and acting as if they’ve always been lifelong BFFs.
“I just learned more about him than I ever knew in high school,” I tell her once we’re on the road.
“Ben and I were actually kind of friends because of Spanish class,” she says. This is what I mean. They were never friends.
“Well, I’m definitely in reunion mode now,” I say.
When we get back to Callie’s, all three of us get comfortable in front of the nationally televised Spelling Bee. This is our favorite night of the year. That it’s taking place the night before our reunion, and thus Callie and I get to watch awkward adolescents go for the gold together while having a slumber party, is some sort of cosmic gift. Aside from the very controversial decision to give a girl “gnocchi” in the second-to-last round—any pasta-loving kid could nail that word—it’s a rather boring bee.
Once Nate goes to sleep, Callie and I stay up past our bedtimes looking at the Facebook pages of random former classmates.
“What’s that girl’s name who always had a broken leg?” I ask her.
“Elizabeth! How can you not remember that?”
“I just pray that Evan will be there. Do you think he still talks with a fake British accent? Let’s check his page.”
This is why lifelong friends are so hard to supplement. The shared history is what makes our sleepover so entertaining. Whose Facebook page can I gawk at with a newbie?
Facebook-stalking could be the theme of the weekend. Since everyone has seen everyone else’s profiles, there are no big surprises. Nerdy John’s become something of a pimp? Yeah, I saw his latest photo updates. Socialite Samantha’s hosting a fund-raiser? Got the Facebook invitation. The real shocker is not how much people have changed but how much they haven’t. On a tour of the new gym (my high school upgraded athletic facilities immediately after I graduated. There is now an actual yoga room, complete with a Buddha statue.) I follow our faculty guide down the steps and we pass the crowd that would have been deemed “the druggies” if my life were a John Hughes movie. They’re sitting on the rocks drinking beers as I’m taking instructions from a teacher. The same frustrations and insecurities and jealousies I felt ten years ago are bubbling up. Apparently I’ve traveled back in time.
After a few hours at my old high school, and another few at a bar with my former classmates, it’s clear that while I may want to relive my high school friendships, I don’t want to relive high school.
“I can’t believe no one has changed,” my friend Emily says as we watch two very drunk classmates embrace.
“Seriously. It’s kind of creepy and amazing at the same time. All the cliques are still the same,” I say. “I mean, it says a lot about the relationships that they’re still intact, but isn’t it weird that so many people still hang out exclusively with high school friends?”
“Yeah, there’s something to be said for growth,” she says.
When I board my flight back to Chicago the next day, I’m full from a weekend with my dearest friends. It’s a deep sense of satisfaction, like the pure contentment of eating a home-cooked meal. But now I’m ready to venture out into new cuisine. Now it’s time for growth.
FRIEND-DATES 21, 22, 23, 24, 25. Brynn, Jackie, Dana, Mia, Morgan.
Nice, nice, bitchy, nice, nice.
Or more specifically: Nice, cool and kind of sarcastic, unfriendly, fun, hilarious. All five emailed me from my essay. Brynn and Jackie are fellow East Coasters (Brynn is from Boston, Jackie is from Westchester County, where I grew up) who recently relocated to Chicago with their men. The same is true of Dana, who moved from Manhattan within the year. I originally thought we’d be a great match. Her email was cute and witty, with references to the New York restaurants she missed and the Chicago haunts she’s adopted. “I’ve always made friends through work or school, but it’s much harder this time, especially with no children or dogs. I feel too old to friend some of the hipsters in my neighborhood, but too young to friend the fogeys at my office.”
Upon meeting, though, it’s clear it’s not just that she misses her friends, she misses New York. And it’s not just that she misses New York, she really doesn’t like Chicago. She’s got that New York edge only an outsider would notice, which tells me one thing: I’m not a New Yorker anymore. While our conversation reminds me that I have some Big Apple nostalgia—“I loved the Shake Shack!”—I don’t wish I lived there. Dana does.
“I’m just kind of a mean person,” she says, not at all jokingly. “My boss in New York
used to tell me that he loved that I was mean, and I was like ‘Great, I’m about to move to the friendliest place in the world.’ ”
I used to say this kind of thing all the time. “Yeah, I’m kind of a bitch, I’m a New Yorker! That’s what makes me lovable.” The last time I remember making such a comment was to my coworker Joan. “I was nervous that my New York sarcasm was rubbing everyone the wrong way,” I told her once, before realizing that the constant references to my previous Manhattan life weren’t interesting to anyone but myself. In fact, they were kind of obnoxious. Dana has that similar “New York is the center of the world attitude” which I don’t begrudge her, but I do know she won’t be all that happy in Chicago until she shakes it.
Mia lives around the corner from me. She’s smart, likes travel and exercise, seems like a great activity partner, and gets huge points for living in the neighborhood. The perfect pedicure friend. Morgan’s from L.A. and has bright red hair that’s short and teased in a way that reminds me of a 1980s Molly Ringwald. I love it. In telling me about some of her mommy issues, she mentions she was an actress when she was young.
“Like, an actress actress? Would I have seen you in anything?”
“Have you heard of the show Sisters?” Um, clearly. I only watched it every single Saturday night of my preteen I’m-too-young-to-go-out-on-a-Saturday-night life. “I was on it for seven years.”
I’m having my own superfan moment here. She also had bit parts on Roseanne and, later in her career, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. When I mention something of my love for Alyson Hannigan, she calls her “Aly.” It’s all I can do to not grab her phone to see what other celebrities are in her contact list.
It’s in these moments that I love my search even more than I love the people I’ve met. When you force yourself to go out with fifty-two new potential best friends, you’re going to get all sorts of characters sitting across the dinner table. A child actress, a pastor’s daughter, a mom of twins, a southern Yalie, an aspiring Olympian. I’m starting to feel like the most connected girl in Chicago, and with my hand in so many different circles of the city it can be hard to keep them all straight. When I run errands now, I’m constantly on the lookout for familiar faces, and nothing makes me feel more local than bumping into someone I know. If at the end of the year I emerge with no BFF, I’ll certainly have plenty of acquaintances. I could network you all over town. Need a wedding dress? I’ve got just the girl! Want to pursue Jewish studies? I’ll hook you up.
In The Tipping Point, author Malcolm Gladwell talks about what he calls Connectors, “people with a special gift for bringing the world together … They are the kinds of people who know everyone.” I remember the first time I read that chapter, in 2003, and thought about the people I knew who so obviously fit the bill. Reading it again I see that I’m getting there. “Connectors are people whom all of us can reach in only a few steps because, for one reason or another, they manage to occupy many different worlds and subcultures and niches.… Acquaintances, in short, represent a source of social power, and the more acquaintances you have the more powerful you are.” Every time I read that sentence I’m filled with inexplicable images of Underdog, as if knowing a lot of people makes you some sort of social (and cuddly) superhero. I’ve gone from feeling socially isolated to socially powerful in six short months.
It’s hard to believe that the search is almost half over. When I take stock of how far I’ve come, I think I’m on the right track. In the last two months I’ve loaded my social calendar with follow-up dates. Jillian, the front-runner, has been in heavy rotation. She brought her husband, Paul, and the twins along for a Sunday brunch and this time I didn’t arrive empty-handed. All it takes to endear yourself to a friend’s twin boys is Elmo, and I am not above buying a little adoration. I brought Matt along to their second birthday party—a significant step for the friendship, and not a bad form of birth control, either. Being in charge of the boys while Jillian and Paul cut fruit was certainly entertaining for the thirty minutes we were on duty, but by the time Matt and I got back home we were more than certain that the only baby in our immediate future (read: two years if you’re asking me, more like four years if it’s up to Matt) would be our nephew, Gavin.
Hannah and I took a trip to Printer’s Row Litfest, a book fair downtown. Seeing each other once a month for book club is a good friendship booster, too. And, I swear, she has the best laugh of anyone I’ve ever met. Yes, I’m aware it sounds like I’m actually trying to date her, but have you ever thought about how vital laughter is to friendship? When I recall all the dates that went less-than-swimmingly—Heidi and Michelle, Jodie, Wendy, Dana—lack of laughter is the common denominator. If I look back at my friendships that work—Callie and Sara, my college friends, my work clique—sitting around in hysterics is the image that immediately comes to mind.
In her quest to boost her overall happiness with only small changes, Gretchen Rubin, author of The Happiness Project, jacked up the number of times she laughed in a day. “It’s a source of social bonding,” she wrote of the best medicine. “It helps to reduce conflicts and cushion social stress within relationships—at work, in marriage, among strangers. When people laugh together, they tend to talk and touch more and to make eye contact more frequently.” If I had to pick a single indicator of whether a friendship will take off after the first date, how many times I laughed in a given meeting would be it. It separates the front-runners from the they-were-nice-maybe-we’ll-have-dinner-agains. Just because the majority of my dates fall under the large and not-always-flattering category of “nice” doesn’t mean they’re all going to be BFFs. Shared laughter tips the scales.
Hannah and I laugh together a lot. And hers is a hearty, gulping, almost cartoonish laugh. Her laugh makes me laugh, which just makes me want to make her laugh all the time. I know, sounds like love, right?
Speaking of people who’ve made me pee myself with hysterics, my coworkers are still probably my closest friends in town. Aside from our daily lunches and link sharing (I get some combination of Neil Patrick Harris, Glee, and Justin Bieber videos hourly), Kari, Ashley, Lynn, Joan, and I have been making a concerted effort to meet for out-of-office gatherings. I hosted a How I Met Your Mother screening not so long ago, and on a recent Thursday we did drinks and tapas. I’m starting to hear talk of other jobs, but I’m feeling more confident that the friendships will exist—no, thrive—outside our corporate walls. My record at my old job was two for three—of the trio of work BFFs I was sure would be around forever, two were at my wedding two years later. But with this crowd, I’m optimistic. If we all go our separate ways, I’m rooting for a perfect score.
Margot the bridal consultant and I have had more dinners that lasted for hours. I met Amanda, the one who blogged about me, for Thai food and got an after-work pedicure with Mia, the essay responder who lives around the corner. Jen and Alison, my old NU classmates, met me for brunch, where Alison announced she got into business school (exciting!) … in D.C. (less so). My first fallen friend. Hilary and I went for that long Saturday afternoon walk, later I went to her birthday dinner, and once she even called me on the phone just to say hi. I was at the office and had to silence the call since cellphone talkers are shunned in the open-air cubicle environment. But I checked the voice mail immediately, obviously. “Hey, Rach, it’s Hil!” (She’s called me Rach since the first time we met. No one calls me Rach. It’s cute.) “Just wanted to say hi, see how everything’s going. Want to make plans to hang out soon, so call me! Okay, love you!”
Really? You love me? We’ve hung out, like, four times. Here’s where I’m glad friending isn’t dating. No “talk” necessary, no drama. Just a sign that Hilary probably says I love you to all her friends, which doesn’t entirely surprise me. Not something I’d say quite so early, but harmless.
I’ve even had dinner with Jodie twice more. You know Jodie, the 40-something mother of two adolescents? The one I saw no future with? Right, her. I didn’t pursue any more dates after our first lunch,
but she emailed a few times inviting me out to dinner, and I didn’t know how to say no. When it comes to friend breakups, I’m clueless. Women actually find it harder and feel more guilt when breaking up with a friend than a lover, and I’m certainly in that camp. It’s not like I can only have one friend as long as we both shall live, not as if I can’t see other people. To reject friendship, or at the very least dinner plans, with Jodie would be to say, “I don’t like you.” And that, well that’s just mean. And not true. I don’t dislike her. I just don’t imagine we’ll be best friends. So I met her for dinner, twice, and my verdict still stands. Jodie is a really nice woman who would make a wonderful friend. To someone else. We’re just not best-friend compatible.
So here we are. One date shy of the halfway mark. I can no longer whine with any conviction about having no friends—not even on my most dramatic days. I tell stories about my new pals that start “My friend Kim said …” or “I was at a bar with my friend Ellen …” I’ve started making a more concerted effort to gather phone numbers, and on a lonely Friday night I might even use them.
The definition of BFF is definitely evolving with my search. In a pinch, I have some ladies I’d call for a pedicure. But if Matt and I had a huge fight? One that involved tears? I still wouldn’t bother any of these new friends with that. If I had a medical emergency and needed some friends to cheer me up? I’d probably call in the long-distance lifers. Hell, I’m not sure I’d ask any of these new ladies for a ride to the airport if it came down to it. So there’s a ways to go.
Even so, I try to recall the girl who started this quest. It’s as if I’m playing a movie reel in my head. I can picture her lying on the couch on a Friday night, clicker in hand. I see the morning I went for my wedding dress fitting, almost in tears because there was no one in town to come along for moral support. I can picture the “I need a friend to have lunch with” conversations with Matt—me at the kitchen table staring at my phone, him fixing a sandwich—when he was heading to play basketball for the day. I feel sorry for her. Almost embarrassed. But mostly just distant, as if she were my silly younger sister, not my former self.
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