Authors: Rachel Bertsche
It’s almost entirely true. Hilary’s number is in my phone, and I could probably track down Hannah’s because she has texted me about book club a few times (I keep forgetting to store her number, so instead I just remember that it’s the only unidentified Boston area code that sends me texts), but that’s it. The communication with my other dates thus far has been by email—we write to set up a dinner, and then again to say “I had a great time” and “we should do it again” and “when are you free?” We haven’t even graduated to texting, so even if I wanted to call them tonight, I couldn’t.
My mom is shocked. “You don’t have their numbers?”
“Our relationships are email and Facebook only, so far.” This is largely my fault, of course. If I were bolder I’d track down someone’s number—Ellen maybe, or Jen—and text “Hey, what are you up to?” But I’m still cautious about asking for too much too soon.
One of my earliest memories of friendship with Callie is when she approached me in our ninth-grade hallway, a month or two into freshman year, and said “I’m going to call you tonight.” And she did. We talked about who-knows-what for
hours, and thus began a lifetime of phone calls. If only one of my new friends had made such a pronouncement.
Even if we were still teenyboppers, that interaction would never happen today. Evenings spent spiraling the phone cord around your wrist while gossiping for hours are so twentieth century. Now communication is in snippets. One hundred forty characters of Tweetiness or abbreviated words via text. My old-school phone call with Callie would today be a text message: “Did u c what Caroline wuz wearing? OMG. Heinous.” According to one study, the majority of teens are more likely to use their cellphones to text than talk, and while 54 percent of teenagers say they text their friends at least once a day, only 33 percent talk to their friends in person that often.
The research may be about teenagers—and I’m a good decade older than the 12–17 range that entails—but the ways of the future usually start with the kiddies and trickle up to the rest of us. The text-only lifestyle has certainly found its way into adult friendships. These days, I only talk on the phone with my out-of-town friends. When the Chicagoans whose numbers I do have pop up on my ringing phone, I immediately wonder what’s wrong.
John Cacioppo told me face-to-face is better than phone, phone is better than email, email is better than Facebook, and so on. It’s unfortunate that phone calls are a thing of the past, but it’s reality. No matter how close I get with any of my new friends, I think the “what are you doing tonight?” will always start with a text message. Phone calls feel like impositions of the neighborly pop-in variety. I picture my potential friends making dinner or working or watching TV, and I don’t want to be the name on the caller ID that prompts a “why is
she
calling me?”
This might be a fundamental flaw in my search. I’m looking for an old-school friendship in a modern technology world. How am I supposed to find a call-on-a-Friday-night pal when I’m hesitant to call anyone, period? Maybe I need to revise my wish list to text-at-the-last-minute friend. Those phone calls with Callie elevated us to BFF status pretty quickly, and texts probably won’t foster that same sense of closeness, but they’re still something. Sure, a phone call comes with give and take, voice and intonation, an opportunity for understanding and empathy, but a good “saw a cute dress in the window of Banana—it’s so you!” text will go a long way. If nothing else, it says, “I’m thinking of you.” Always a nice thing to hear. But first things first, need to get me some digits.
The next morning I drive the twenty minutes to meet Jillian near her Andersonville apartment for brunch and a pedicure (a date set up by email, of course). First order of business: We exchange phone numbers. And then, over matching fontina quiches …
“Okay, so I have two presents for you.”
“Presents? For me?” I probably sound like one of her twins, but I’m in shock. I love presents! (At 28 years old I’d still search the apartment in the weeks leading up to my birthday if Matt didn’t know better and stash all gifts in his office.) I want to throw my arms around her and tell her I love her and that we should be bestest friends forever and ever. And I don’t even know what the gift is.
“Well, I was in my favorite used-book store, and I saw this and remembered you said you loved
Little Women
, so I had to get it for you.” She pulls out what looks like a wall calendar, but is actually a book of antique-looking watercolor paper dolls of the March family. Upon inspection, I see that the collection
is from 1981, part of a series that includes “Dolls of the ’30s” and “The Antique Dolls Go to a Paper Doll Wedding.” It’s perfect. The book is the type of gift that usually comes from the closest of friends—someone who knows that while you have no real use for paper dolls and no place to keep them, they’ll make you smile. And they buy it for you, just because. Needless to say, I’m girl-crushing something fierce.
There are very few times in my life that I’ve not known what to say—or haven’t just said the wrong thing anyway—but I’m stumped. All the professions of gratitude that come to mind would probably seem creepy and overly adoring for a friend I’m meeting for only the second time.
“Thank you,” I say. “This is amazing.”
“I couldn’t
not
get it for you. When we saw it I told Paul, I’ve got to buy this for my new friend.”
She called me her new friend! She told Paul about me! Matt’s mom tells the story of the day he met his best friend of twenty-four years. Five-year-old Matt arrived home from day camp and proudly declared, “I made a new friend. His name is Noah Benjamin.” And that was that.
Jillian could be my Noah Benjamin.
“The second gift is really just a loan,” she says. “I ordered this on Amazon.uk.” She hands me the third in Stieg Larsson’s
Millennium
trilogy, which isn’t due out in the United States for a few weeks. I hug it tight.
“I promise to take good care of it,” I tell her. “Is it great?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t put it down.” There’s something about how well we can relate to each other’s nerdy love affair with books that just makes us work.
When we first met, I thought the similarities between Jillian and me were a sign we were meant to be. But I’ve been reading up on social connections, and apparently it’s more science
than fate at work here. There’s more to my immediate connection with Jillian than just our shared passion for reading. Brothers and coauthors Ori and Rom Brafman, who examine the science behind these magic moments in their book
Click: The Magic of Instant Connections
, name similarity as one of the five “click accelerators” (the others are proximity, vulnerability, resonance, and a safe place). No matter how trivial and out of our control the likenesses may be—like the simple fact that Jillian and I both have brothers named Alex and fathers named William—they lead to greater likability. That’s why I always remember the girl in grade school who shared my birthday, or why Matt might easily warm up to a fellow Red Sox fan. I put stock into random coincidences, but it turns out I’m just favoring what’s called the “in-group.” Jillian and I are both from the East Coast, lived in New York City after college, have family members with the same names, and adore reading and TV-watching above all other activities. Plus she has twins and I want twins. Take these similarities, and couple them with gifts? This is serious.
(Of course, my new friend Margot—the home-schooled bridal consultant with seven siblings—is pretty much my opposite when it comes to our backgrounds and I adore her, too, so there is also some validity to “opposites attract.” But when it comes to those I’m immediately drawn to? Let’s just say if I met a curly-haired Diet Coke–toting
Friends
-quoting bibliophile who had an inappropriate and inexplicable crush on Jeff Probst, I’d whisk her away on a girl-date before she knew what hit her.)
As if lavishing me with presents isn’t enough, Jillian seems to put the same emphasis on friendship that I do, which is endearing her to me even more. She’s got two kids, a full-time
job
in Indiana
, and yet she still makes time to have brunch or dinner with me.
“I need adult conversation and some time to myself. Otherwise I’d go crazy,” Jillian says. “But next time you need to meet the boys.” Yes, please.
One quiche, three sodas, and ten purple-painted toenails later, I head to my car with book and paper dolls in hand, a new number in my phone, and the pitter-patter of friend-love in my heart.
FRIEND-DATE 20.
When I arrive at Gibsons, a classic Chicago steakhouse, I elbow my way to the bar. Though Wendy and I didn’t specify if this would be dinner or just drinks—so many of the setup emails begin with “I’d love to grab a bite or glass of wine sometime” and end with only “Great! Let’s do Wednesday at 7”—this restaurant is expensive enough that I assume we can’t be eating. I drop my gym bag on a barstool and head to the restroom before settling in to wait for my latest potential BFF. On the way back I notice a girl sitting alone, napkin in her lap, with what looks like a chocolate martini. Her back is to me so I can’t see her face. Not that a visual would be that helpful. Wendy and I have only spoken online, and her description of herself as “a brunette on the short side” covers about 90 percent of the girls I know, myself included. Dinner here would be a pretty fancy date, but I figure I better ask. “Are you Wendy?”
“Hello.”
It’s a normal greeting, but something about the way she says it—sort of like Meryl Streep in
The Devil Wears Prada
—gives me the creeps.
I guess we’re eating dinner after all. I grab my stuff from the
bar and take the seat across from my new date. Facing Wendy, I can immediately see we’re plenty different. I’m as casual and sporty as she is prim and proper.
“So, were you nervous about tonight?” she asks matter-of-factly, and I can’t tell from her tone if this means she was anxious herself.
“No, not at all.” It’s true. I’ve become totally at ease with these friend-dates. In the early days, my response would have been different. There was a nervous excitement when I first met Hannah—Should we hug? What’ll we talk about? Will she want to be my best friend forever?—but almost six months in, dates are just part of the routine. I know, look at me all blasé.
Me? Nervous? Never! I could friend-date you under the table.
I take a note for my mental growth chart: Nerves have left the building.
Wendy, who found me via
LinkedIn.com
after reading my online plea, tells me she reads my blog.
“I really like it. You are funny.”
“Oh, thanks so much. I try,” I say. “So you moved here from New York, too?”
“Yes, but let us talk more about you. I want to know: How did you become a writer?”
“How? Oh, well I went to school for it, and then got a job at a magazine out of college. I don’t know, really. I’ve just always loved writing so when I moved out here I pitched stories and started freelancing. I had to stop for a while when I got my full-time job, so I’m happy to be blogging. It helps me maintain some creativity. What do you do?”
“I work in accounting. But back to you, tell me about your time in New York.”
The conversation is teetering on the edge of uncomfortable. At least for me. Wendy is not particularly interested in telling me about herself. You never realize just how important the
give and take of a conversation is until it’s missing. This feels more like an interview than a friend-date. And there’s something really distracting about her speech pattern.
“I loved New York. I obviously miss all my friends there, but my husband was in Philly and we wanted to be together after dating long distance for three years. You moved here to be with your fiancé, right? Tell me about you …”
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.