Authors: Rachel Bertsche
But I continue the conversation. She looks like friend material. “Do you live in Chicago? Or just visiting?”
“No, I live in Miami. But I go to school at Notre Dame, so I’m driving once I get to O’Hare.”
“Oh, what year are you?” Please say graduate school.
“Freshman.”
Huh. That means she’s 18. I thought maybe 28. I would make a horrible bouncer.
At the new gate, she pulls out a magazine and we part ways. I don’t think an 18-year-old student in Indiana is what I’m looking for. Still, it’s clear I’m getting friendlier. She’s the second person I’ve chatted with in a situation where I would normally give a terse response and run. The first was at the gym, when a 20-something girl in the locker room asked me what I paid for my membership. Turned out she was on the family payment plan with her boyfriend, who recently broke up with her, and she was trying to figure out if she could afford to still belong.
“We bought our condo together, too,” she said. “We were so young and stupid. I was twenty-one and he was twenty-four. Now my credit is shot, and my parents had to co-sign my new
lease and they’re totally freaking out.” This is more information than I would usually want from a stranger, especially at 7
A.M.
My workout has always been me-time. But instead of cutting the conversation short (“Well, good luck! Gotta grab a treadmill!”) I told her about my apartment-buying hassles. I’ve developed the “you never know where your best friend will come from” mind-set. Nothing came of it, but I was flexing the talk-to-strangers muscle. It’s a vital exercise in its own right.
After seeing what I’m missing in New York, I’m even more determined to turn one of my dates from potential-friend to friend. So when I get an email Monday about a film screening that Wednesday, I stop myself before calling my mom. She’s my go-to for romantic comedies since Matt’s not the rom-com type. She’ll always say yes to a last-minute movie. But that’s how I got into this predicament. Now, with a handful of almost-friends, I figure it’s a perfect follow-up date. I email Hannah, but she already has plans. I try Hilary. She has a training run. Margot, who’s in school part-time, has a test the next day. Kim has work.
Wow. People are really booked. I guess when they have workouts, job, errands, and school to attend to, going to a weekday movie with a friend seems a bit luxurious. It doesn’t feel productive.
Teenagers spend nearly 33 percent of their time with friends, but that number drops to less than 10 percent for adults. When we do have time for friends, most people would rather spend it with already-established BFFs than having to be “on” with a possible new one. Because when we’re not busy, we’re tired. And even though 85 percent of adults feel less stressed and more energized after they’ve spent time with friends, the
couch is still much more inviting after a hard day’s work. In his book
Bowling Alone
, Robert Putnam wrote, “Visits with friends are now on the social capital endangered species list.” Sad.
Even though I’m dedicating my year to making a new best friend, the potential BFFs aren’t. I respond to all the declines to my offer with a counteroffer. Want to have brunch this weekend? Drinks next week? Go to another cooking class or yoga Sunday night? Making the second round of plans takes another exchange of back-and-forth emails, but I get a dinner with Margot—plus our men!—on the books, and a potential brunch plan with Hilary. The ball is rolling.
I end up bringing Becca, the friend of a friend who was just … nice … to the movie. First dates can be uncomfortable, and we have two friends in common, so maybe we were merely out of sync last time. During pre-movie chatter, she asks if I have anyone to set her up with, so I throw out my friend David, the same guy I mentioned to Hannah weeks ago. Becca’s intrigued. I promise to investigate his relationship status.
After the girl talk, we fall silent. We’re both looking around the theater quite purposefully, as if the reason we’re not speaking isn’t because we have nothing to say, but because we absolutely need to catch the eye of the cute guy in the third row or the texting girl two seats back. Finally, the lights start to dim. Thank God.
Later, as we part, there’s an awkward hug and a “We should do this again sometime” that clearly means we probably won’t.
Two days later I get a text. “Did you find out about David?” I did, and even though I gave him a glowing description—Becca may not be right for me but she’s very much his type—and Matt verified her good looks, he’s not interested.
“I looked her up on Facebook,” he emails me. “I’ve dated too many of her friends.”
Oy. This is why I don’t set people up. I text her that it appears he’s dating someone—that seems a better excuse—but will keep her posted if anything changes. It’s clear her new-relationship energy is dedicated to the romantic kind. Totally understandable. But given that she has a plethora of childhood friends in Chicago and I’m saving the third follow-up for the most promising contenders, I doubt I’ll reach out again and I don’t expect to hear from her. Oh well.
FRIEND-DATE 12.
On Thursday I have a blind friend-date that Callie set up. My mystery woman is named Muffy, and all I’ve been told is that she’s really pretty and went to Yale. Given the name and background, I’m picturing someone with Upper East Side glamour. Pearl earrings, Tory Burch flats, straight-leg ankle-length pants. When I arrive at the bistro she suggested, I tell the host I’m meeting someone.
“Who?”
“Um, Muffy?” I feel silly saying her name aloud.
“Oh, sure, Muffy’s here all the time.” Wow, this is going to be even more
Gossip Girl
-y than I thought. She’s a regular! The whole thing feels very un-Midwestern. He seats me at the bar, and when Muffy arrives, she’s as glamorous as I imagined. She’s approximately eight feet tall, with short bobbed hair, and is wearing some sort of fur stole. I’m feeling very plain.
“Should we get a table?” I ask.
“I don’t think they let you sit at tables if you’re only getting drinks.” Oh. I guess we’re only getting drinks. I try sending Matt telepathic messages to not eat dinner without me.
Another date, another nice time. We have a drink—I get a white wine, she gets her “usual,” a dirty martini with blue-cheese-stuffed
olives—and dish our backstories. She’s from Little Rock, but her husband is from Chicago so they moved here six months ago. She lived in New York after college, then in London for a year working for Burberry. Now that she’s in Chicago, she’s trying to figure out what the next career move will be. In the meantime she bides her time serving on women’s auxiliary boards all over Chicago.
Callie tells me later that Muffy wore a huge sun hat to her wedding. Of course she did.
Twelve dates in, I still haven’t put my finger on exactly what makes one date click and not another. Joseph Epstein wrote that friendship is “affection, variously based on common interests, a common past, common values, and, alas, sometimes common enemies.” I’ve read that each common interest between potential friends boosts the chances of a lasting relationship, and also increases an individual’s life satisfaction by 2 percent. Commonalities certainly seem important, but I can find something in common with everyone I’ve met. A common upbringing or religion, a shared love of books, similar politics, a mutual friend. There’s got to be a reason why I never noticed the time during my three-and-a-half-hour dinner with Margot, but checked my watch with Muffy, despite having a nice enough evening. Certainly the ease of conversation is a big factor, as is synergy. John Cacioppo told me that “the relationships that seem to fuel people are synergistic, they produce more than the sum of the parts. You’re investing in a way that you’re getting more returns than you’re putting in. As soon as you see it that way, you focus a little bit differently on who’s a friend, because it’s not about you getting what you want. It’s about both getting more than you’re putting in.” That is to say, the friendships I’ll gravitate toward aren’t just
the ones that have a lot to offer me, but those where I bring something to the table as well.
It’s nearing the end of March. Almost a quarter of the way through the year, it’s time for a temperature check. Do I have a BFF? Clearly not. I don’t even know if I’d go so far as to say I have new friends (Merriam-Webster defines a friend as “one attached to another by affection or esteem,” and none of these relationships involve attachment just yet). But I have new acquaintances, plenty of whom, over time, I’m confident will become friends, and—fingers crossed—maybe even best ones. I have high hopes for Hannah, Hilary, Margot, Kim, and Jen-Alison (they’re a twofer). Given Hannah’s wide network, and Jen-Alison’s tight-knit group, I’m not sure we’ll ever reach that “I’m calling just because I need someone to vent to” level, (they have their own friends for that, so we may never get the synergy right) but I do think that real friendships are possible. As for my coworkers, they certainly are friends, but as long as we work together I think our friendships will remain mostly 9-to-5, with off-hours activities generally five strong. I’m fine with that. Having good friends within earshot five days a week is pretty amazing.
I do feel like I’ve mastered the art of the first date. No longer is the should-I-hug-or-handshake dilemma. There’s no right answer really, though I tend toward the hug. Certainly a hug on departure.
I’ve fine-tuned the email to a long-lost friend: “We talked about getting together and I’d love to make it happen,” yes. “I’ve lived here two years and am still looking for friends,” no.
As for setups, I opt for the mutual friend introduction. When Callie fixed me up with Muffy, she sent one email to us both: “Rachel, meet Muffy. Muffy, meet Rachel. You’re both
newish to Chicago, and my friends, so I thought you should meet!” It’s an easy way to get things moving. All I had to say was “Hi, Muffy! I’d love to get together. How’s Monday?” If I’m Facebook friends with the BFF-in-waiting already, as I was with Hilary, I’ll send the initial message that way. Feels more casual. More, well, friendly.
On a personal note, my loneliness is dissipating. It’s not gone—hence the bouts of jealousy when I saw Callie and Jill—but with weekly friend-dates and yoga and monthly book clubs, there’s hardly time to be alone, certainly not to feel alone. Only three months in, I’d count that as success.
In February, I wrote an essay about my search that was published online. I figured serial killers are unlikely to troll the Internet for want ads hidden within an essay, so if I was too nervous to post on Craigslist this would be the next best thing. After laying out my backstory and explaining why Matt wasn’t enough to quench my thirst for friendship, I put it out there: “MWF Seeking BFF: Must live in Chicago. Must not bring her dog to lunch dates. Fluency in
Entertainment Weekly
preferred but not required.” It wasn’t easy to distill my BFF requirements into three short sentences, especially since there’s so much more I want out of a BFF. But how do you say, “Looking for someone to call on a moment’s notice, who will watch TV, talk books, laugh at nothing, and analyze others (from Charlie Sheen to my mom) with me when necessary. Someone who will talk me off the ledge from time to time. In return, I will support you in all you do, drive you to the airport whenever you need, and be up for a playdate always”? Well, I guess you say it just like that, but it might be coming on a bit strong. My
twenty-three-word classified got to the heart of who I am and, I thought, might attract someone similar. (To be clear, while I’m not an animal lover, I am not a complete hater. I wouldn’t disqualify someone for having a dog. However, I really don’t like being licked while trying to enjoy a nice turkey burger. It just feels wrong.)
Within days I was getting emails from Chicago-based strangers in the same boat. The first was from Jodie, a single mom who’s also new to the city. “It’s like you have been following me around the city somehow sucking the thoughts out of my very frustrated mind,” she wrote. “I want a friend here in Chicago that I can grab a coffee or drink with at someplace casual or fabulous occasionally. Someone who will laugh with me about the crazy things we hear women talking about in the locker room, or the latest scoop picked up from some television show we know we shouldn’t be watching because we have five hundred other more important things we should be doing.”
Kaitlin wrote, “Thank you for writing the article—I truly felt I was going crazy trying to make friends lately.”
Gina said, “I can completely relate! You gave me a sense of relief that I’m not the only one looking for a BFF.”
A steady stream of similar notes filed in for weeks.
I was shocked. I knew I couldn’t be the only woman on the prowl, but while I hoped one or two brave souls might track me down, I never imagined the onslaught of notes that ensued. The emails all carried a similar message: “I’m in the same boat.” “I thought there was something wrong with me.” “I was so relieved to see that someone else is going through this. I’m not crazy!”
I was flattered and excited by the response, but also kind of disheartened. There are so many women on this same quest—maybe
not as overtly as I am but certainly internally—and no one talks about it. Popular culture has made it okay to yell “I want a man!” from the rooftops, so why are we still embarrassed to say, “I want a best friend”?
When you tell someone “I’m looking for new friends” what they hear is, “I have no friends.” They’re drastically different statements, but in today’s world, you don’t go seeking out new best friends unless you have none. Why would someone waste the time? Letting on that you could use a new BFF implies loneliness, and if you say you’re lonely you might as well say you’re a shut-in. In
The Lonely American
, Jacqueline Olds and Richard Schwartz write, “Talking about loneliness in America is deeply stigmatized. We see ourselves as a self-reliant people who do not need to whine about neediness. If a person is going to complain, far better to complain about what someone has done to him (abuse, coercion, rejection) or what diagnoses and addictions he is saddled with; to wistfully describe how lonely he feels is not socially acceptable.” It’s true, but it sucks.