Since she lives so close—a three-minute walk from my apartment—we have become mani-pedi buddies. Mia is really good at pedicure maintenance, while I’m more of the “oh, my pinky toe looks like a stump, maybe I should paint it so you can tell there’s a nail” type. I must say, since she came into my life my toes have never looked better.
Plenty of research has found that geography is one of the most influential factors in whether two people will become friends. Having similar addresses has been shown to matter more than having similar values or interests. Luckily, Mia and I share all three.
“How do you two know each other?” asks one of Mia’s friends.
We look at each other with a grin. It always sounds odd when I tell people that a new friend responded to an article I wrote about wanting more friends.
“Mia read an essay I wrote online and she reached out to me,” I say. “Turned out we live in the same neighborhood and we’ve been friends ever since.”
“That’s so great!” Mia’s friend says. Once again, what I fear will appear desperate actually sounds pretty impressive.
“Yeah, isn’t it?”
My nose is buried in my third glass of red wine when my phone rings. The caller ID shows it’s my brother, Alex, but I hit the IGNORE button. I’ll call him back later. New friends and new wines demand my undivided attention.
Sixteen hours later I’m hunched over the computer when my brother calls a second time. I have assignments to finish up so I hit IGNORE. Again.
Modern technology makes it virtually impossible to disappear entirely—especially when my communication with co-workers is almost entirely over instant message—so within minutes an IM pops up on my screen.
“You avoid my calls now?” Alex asks.
I explain that I was wine tasting with one of my potential BFFs yesterday, and that today I’m swamped at work.
“I’ll be available in ten minutes,” I tell him.
“Okay, I’ll call you then.”
Something is very obviously up. Alex and I are as close as any siblings I know. We talk all the time. But his determination to get me on the phone ASAP is suspicious. He’s proposing to Jaime, I bet.
Alex and Jaime have been dating for three years. They met when they were attendants in the same wedding and decided to brave the trials of long-distance romance. Selfishly, I’m glad they did. I love Jaime, and though we don’t hang out without Alex often, she already feels like family. Plus, her Chicago residency means I get to see my brother a ton.
As cross-country relationships go, theirs seems manageable. Alex travels almost every weekend for work—he’s a sports TV producer and is constantly on the road for games—so he tacks on a few days in Chicago whenever business brings him to the general Midwest region. But, as with friendship, a romantic relationship conducted across state lines isn’t ideal. You can hold on to faraway friends while you make new ones nearby, but it’s not so easy with dating. Alex can’t exactly supplement his long-distance relationship with a local one.
My entire family awaits the news that someone is moving somewhere. Who will do the relocating is the big question mark.
Staring at my phone, waiting for it to ring, I imagine Alex telling me that he’s going to propose. Once they’re engaged, I figure Jaime will probably move to New York.
“So?” I ask when I get the call. Alex knows that I suspect he has news to deliver.
“I just wanted to call and let you know that I am moving to Chicago in two weeks.”
“What?!?” This I was not expecting. I’d certainly entertained the idea that Alex would move to Chicago—our family is here, and he and Jaime can certainly get more for their money than in Manhattan—but I figured I would get a bit more warning. I consult my big brother on every decision I make, so I forget sometimes that he’s a guy—with all the disinterest in talking things to death that this entails.
The proposal I was hoping for is not to be. Yet. This move means they’ll probably be engaged within six months, tops.
Alex’s relocation adds a whole new element to my search. If the definition of BFF is someone you talk to almost every day, someone who understands you so well you never need to explain yourself, someone you can always call for last-minute plans, someone who laughs at all the same things you do and is there when you need advice, then my brother is it.
He is, as Jaime pointed out recently, the male version of me. She discovered this while commiserating with Matt over our common bad habits—nail biting (and not always cleaning up the scraps), technology addiction, getting worked up before bedtime as we recount our day—so I’m not sure she meant it as a compliment. But still.
Plenty of people consider family to be their best friends. The same General Social Survey that found that Americans are lonelier reported that the percentage of Americans who named at least one nonrelative as part of their core group went from 80 percent to 57 percent in twenty years. That means 43 percent of respondents said their only confidants were family members—be it spouse, parent, sibling, or child. Almost half of America has an inner circle made up entirely of relatives.
I subscribe to the separate-but-equal approach to relationships. I like to keep my marriage separate from my friendships separate from my family. The bonds of each have different tenets and different functions. “A best friend is that person who gives you the most delight, support, and comfort, often in those realms where family cannot help,” Joseph Epstein writes in Friendship: An Exposé. “A best friend is perhaps the only person to whom you can complain about the difficulties presented by your family.” In other words, family—for all their unconditional love and support—brings out the crazy in us. Friends ground us back to earth.
He may not qualify for BFF status, but I’m delighted my brother is going to be in town. And not just because he’ll round out the full life I’ve established in my new city. I’m equally excited because he will be another friend for Matt.
For someone who’s so supportive of my BFF search—his relentless cheerleading can get downright annoying—Matt is still perfectly content to play poker with a bunch of strangers on a Friday night. The last time he told me he’d be heading to the casino to play Texas Hold ’Em while I went out with new friends, I tried to put my foot down.
“Why don’t you call Max? Or Ben? See what they’re up to,” I said. “Male friendships are important. You need to be social. It’s really so much healthier than sitting silently at a casino table with a bunch of shady dudes. It’ll help you live longer!”
“Don’t you friendship me,” Matt said. I’ve never heard friendship used as a verb, but it works. And I will friendship him. This research he’s been encouraging me to collect can now be used against him.
Wouldn’t most husbands kill for their spouse to encourage a night out with the guys? I should win Wife of the Year.
Last week I got my first match from Joe Drake the friend broker. I’m supposed to meet Stacey and Maureen—women who, according to Joe, are different enough from me that I’ll find them interesting, but similar enough to get along on a basic level—at a wine bar near my apartment. I’m not sure what to expect out of this setup, as the set-upper isn’t a close friend but a paid service provider.
Joe sent us each some ground rules so I have a tentative road map for this first date, though they come pretty naturally by now. I always like specific instructions—Don’t talk about the weather! Don’t be late!—so I appreciate Drake’s effort to facilitate a successful encounter. Part of me wishes I had hired him before my year of dating even started. His advice would have come in much more handy back then. Like this nugget, which I would pass on to anyone who might be inspired to do some girl-dating of her own: “Expectations … they can be a killer. At this point you may be hopeful that your upcoming meeting will yield you a new best friend (or friends), or fearful that it will be the most awkward thing you’ve ever done. It’s a safe bet that neither extreme will unfold, so give yourself and each other a break, and enjoy one of the last nic
e evenings of the season out meeting new people. Ideally, you’ll just come out of it saying, ‘I’d like to see [her/them] again.’ And then you will.”
Managing expectations has been a learning process. In January I honestly thought that I would meet a girl at a restaurant and music would start playing and the stars would suddenly align and it would be as if we were both shot with Cupid’s arrow. Or the arrow of Cupid’s little sister, the Goddess of Girl-Crushes. I figured that we would start texting as soon as our first date ended, and that we’d assume the BFF roles in each other’s lives as if we’d been besties since birth. We’d be like Oprah and Gayle, without all the lesbian rumors. (What is that about anyway? Why can’t two famous women be best friends without everyone assuming they’re getting it on? Theirs is the real-life tell-it-like-it-is do-anything-for-each-other crazy-adventure-seeking friendship I still hope will one day come out of this search, so I’ve never understood the in-the-closet speculation.)
When I was young, it really felt that simple. I’d meet a friend, or friends, and on rare occasions it would feel as though they were the final piece of the puzzle. They made me whole. It hasn’t worked like that this year. Even if the first date goes well, the second can be equally hard—if not harder—to schedule. It’s takes more than a simple click. It takes being proactive, and setting aside time despite hectic schedules on both sides. But if each potential BFF is excited about the prospect of a new friendship, they’ll do the work. If He’s Just Not That Into You taught us anything about relationships, it’s that “if a (sane) guy really likes you, there ain’t nothing that’s going to get in his way.” The same is true of a potential best friend.
I don’t care anymore if I sound anxious. If I want to see a new friend again, I email in the next day or two. If a girl-date is just okay, I usually wait for them to contact me, or until my schedule quiets down a bit. Sometimes it never does, and those dates don’t get a second chance. But with more than three dozen of these outings under my belt, I’ve realized if I really want to pursue a friendship, I will. My desire—or lack thereof—to reach out immediately is my internal barometer of just how taken I am with a potential relationship. If my girl-date invites me for a second get-together, I always say yes. Though more often than not, if I don’t follow up, she doesn’t, either. Women can judge dates (of any kind) pretty well. General feelings of there’s-no-future-here usually go both ways.
I still hold out hope that I will meet my Gayle King or Christina Yang (in a recent episode of Grey’s Anatomy, Meredith told Christina that “Derek’s the love of my life, but you’re my soul mate.” I actually screamed at the TV. “Yes! Exactly!” That Shonda Rhimes just gets me), but I have learned to temper my expectations. One person can’t make me whole, anyway. That’s something I need to do for myself.
FRIEND-DATE 38. Stacey is sitting at the bar when I arrive. Dark hair pulled back, khaki jacket, jeans, and boots. All I know of her is what I’ve heard from Joe Drake. She’s from Rogers Park, works in marketing, graduated from University of Illinois (undergrad and MBA), and she’s single.
With two out of three present, we take a seat. This bar is pretty empty—that’s what happens when you meet for drinks at 5 on a Sunday—so Maureen will find us.
Stacey is a wine connoisseur. This is a good trait in a potential BFF. Sometimes I wish I could staff my friends like I would an office—we’ll need one social coordinator, one finance whiz to handle dividing group checks, a fashionista to approve outfits and track down the perfect pair of jeans, and a computer genius/Ms. Fix-It to help me repair stuff around the house. I call these my Friends with Benefits. (A different kind than Matt was before we started dating.)
Screw fantasy football leagues, how about a fantasy friend league? A foodie with good wine knowledge could come in handy.
For half an hour, in between bouts of the usual small talk and divulging why we each decided to sign up with Meet Joe (many of Stacey’s friends have coupled off and moved to the suburbs, so she’s looking for more local buddies to hang out with), we keep our eyes peeled for Maureen. By 5:30 we accept the obvious: We’ve been stood up.
It doesn’t ruin our good time, though. I enjoy a flight of pinot noir and Stacey gets two glasses of wines I’ve never heard of. She tells me about her love of volunteering and some culinary organizations she works with. I share some yogi insight into my favorite studios around town. By the end of the evening, we’ve discovered our shared love of Bravo’s The Rachel Zoe Project and are spewing out “I die” and “It’s so major.” I have a slight buzz, which might be why I find this hilarious.
Drake gave us specific instructions not to exchange contact info. He promised he’ll send it out with our permission after the date. If necessary, he’ll be in charge of letting someone down easy.
It feels strange to leave without exchanging information, but Drake has done a good job so far (minus Maureen the no-show) so we defer to his rules.
“Hopefully we’ll be in touch,” Stacey says.
“Definitely.”
The red wine is still coursing through my veins as I walk home. When I get to my computer I already have an email from Drake, checking in on our evening. He’s like a fairy godmother.
FRIEND-DATE 39. One week later, on a cold and rainy Saturday, I meet Nicole and Erin—two speed-friending matches—for brunch at the Art Institute of Chicago. When Shasta Nelson sent me my matches a few weeks back, I was relieved to get email addresses for all four of the women I’d hoped to meet again. Unfortunately, Keisha and Susan couldn’t make this outing.
Erin, who does lighting for a local dance company, has dark hair with bold blond highlights. She seems slightly uncomfortable in this atmosphere, which surprises me because she is wearing plaid pants. The courage to wear plaid pants has, to me, always signified the sort of person who isn’t uncomfortable anywhere.
Nicole, whose hair has a side part and is tied in a tight, low ponytail, is the financial analyst and amateur photographer. She organized this meeting, but she seems equally unsure of the protocol.
“What are you guys up to this weekend?” I ask as soon as the first silence takes hold.
And then …
“I love butternut squash soup. And it’s so easy to make at home,” I say later, as I finish my bowl.
Finally …
“I wonder what’s on exhibit downstairs. Since I’m here I might as well look around,” I offer toward the end of the meal.
I do most of the talking at this brunch. Whether it’s because first girl-dates are second nature to me now or because I dread silence, I’m not sure.
Nicole and Erin are both perfectly nice. After lunch we walk together toward the loop before parting ways—them to different El stops, me to a nearby bookstore (I decided to pass on the museum exploration after all). We discuss abstract plans to “do this again sometime.” While I like them both, I’m not sure we’ll meet again. They seemed to hit it off with each other better than either of them did with me, so I don’t know if I’ll follow up, and I don’t expect to hear from them, either. Some girl-dates—like this one—feel every bit the first-date. Others, like Alexis a few weeks ago, feel like you already know each other. I have to focus my energy on those.
Three-quarters of this search are now behind me. I’ve gone on thirty-nine girl-dates in nine months. If three months in I had acquaintances and after six I had friends, today I feel like I’m very much on the path to bestfriendom. Aside from Jillian’s family visit, Labor Day weekend included a trip to the dog park with Margot (a true sign of how much I like her), show tunes night at a local gay bar with Kari and her husband, a movie with Hilary, and a yoga workshop with Natalie. I even had to pass on a night out with Hannah, as she texted me that she’d be in my neighborhood—a last-minute invite!—after Matt and I were already out on a date. My work BFFs—Ashley, Lynn, Joan, and Kari—are still my daily lunch mates and the people with whom I exchange about fifteen People.com “breaking news” links a day. We make off-campus plans infrequen
tly, but five days a week of chatter can really bring people together. I finally have total faith that we’ll remain friends even if we don’t always share an office.
Over the past month I’ve seen Alexis again—she came over for help with her blog—and continued my weekly pre-improv dinners with Rachel. Eddie often joins us now, too. I even signed up for the second level of Second City classes. I never planned on advancing—I’ll find a friend and run for the hills, I thought—but when Rachel and Eddie both said, “You have to do it!” they made the decision for me. The sound of new friends imploring you to stick around is a beautiful and powerful thing. Like the call of the Sirens. Plus, I’ve grown to love my class like one loves a dysfunctional family. Even the self-appointed class clown who doesn’t know when to stop talking—who actually recognizes that he should shut it, says “please somebody stop me,” and then keeps talking anyway until all of our faces are buried in our hands and our entire bodies are cringing—even he has carved himself a space in my improvisational heart.
And to think, I knew none of these people a year ago.
Another bonus of being 75 percent through? After months of being the initiator, invitations now come my way, too. I’d been waiting for the tide to turn, for my friendships to become universally reciprocal, and in the past few months the shift has become obvious. I have a barrage of text messages to prove it.
What I still don’t have, what might not even be possible in one short year, is the type of intimate friendship on par with any of my close friends around the country. I could probably text someone for brunch, but do I know the strengths and values and insecurities at the core of any of my new companions? Do I understand the history and intricate relationships that make them who they are? No.
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