MWF Seeking BFF (35 page)

Last Friday was our LEADS Shabbat dinner. If I had any residual worries that this program might be too pious for me, the sausage and pepperoni pizza entrée took care of them. The festivities kicked off with an übercompetitive game of charades (to be fair, I might have contributed to the cutthroat nature of the game. What can I say? I like to win, and I can act out “Jesus Take the Wheel” like nobody’s business. Just part your hair in the middle and stand there like the Crucifixion. Duh.) and continued on to some serious beer pong.

I was partnered with Rob, our LEADS leader and my first straight male potential friend to come out of this search, while Meredith was teamed up with Steve. Given the amount of unnecessary hugging and touching going down on their team, I had a hunch where their evening was headed. So when Meredith said “Please stay!” after I started to pack up my things, I could see the pleading in her eyes and dropped my purse. There’s no fast track to BFFship like being someone’s wingwoman.

FRIEND-DATE 40.
On Monday, I’m hungry for some good girl talk. When I left the party on Friday it was 1
A.M.
and the rest of the group was heading to a neighborhood bar. I, being the old married lady that I am, couldn’t fathom going out that late.

“Okay, tell me everything,” I say to Meredith when we meet at our mutual yoga place for our first official girl-date. “Did you guys make out?”

“We did,” she says sheepishly. “He’s really sweet, isn’t he?”

“Totally! I think he’s great.”

“He’s only twenty-five though. I’m twenty-eight.”

“And? Three years is nothing,” I say. “So what happened? Fill me in!” I sound like a fiending crack addict who’s fallen off the wagon. I didn’t know how much I’ve missed talking about boys until this moment. Most of my friends have paired off by now, and as for the ones that haven’t, it’s harder to get worked up into high-school-gossip mode when you’re hundreds of miles away and don’t know the guy in question. It’s been a while since I’ve gone to a party and witnessed the first bats of an eyelash, so I feel like a part of the action for the first time in too long.

Getting the details from Meredith—he kissed her good night, she didn’t invite him up but definitely wants to see him again, he asked her out the next day—makes me realize just how much I’ve missed gossiping. Not chatting—swapping stories about our jobs or husbands or stance on Letterman vs. Leno—but truly gossiping. As in, comparing notes about other people and revealing details that might not be public information.

Before you cast me off as the next Blair Waldorf, hear this: Plenty of studies have confirmed that gossip can be good for you. It can promote trust, forge connections, and provide an informal method for learning unwritten social norms. Positive gossip—the kind where you shower an unknowing third party in compliments about how great her outfit looked or how cute her baby is—can raise self-esteem and reduce negative emotions. Office gossip, which my workday is drowning in, can create employee camaraderie. I’ll never forget, at my first job out of college, the day my entire department inadvertently discovered how much a long-distance consultant was
getting paid. (Note to office managers: Never leave a freelance employee’s invoice on the printer all day.) As far as we could tell, his only job requirement was to call in to a department meeting each morning. Everyone felt equally underpaid, outraged, and slightly amused. What better way to bond a group of women—from intern to senior staff member—than to collectively calculate how much our British adviser made each time he said “Cheerio!”

The flip side of that coin is that negative gossip—the kind that’s more common and, let’s face it, usually more fun—has the opposite effect, and is a much more powerful influence. Nice gossip only gives a 3 percent positivity boost, while trash-talking makes us feel 34 percent worse.

I’m not necessarily looking for someone to share a bitchfest with. I just want to say “She said what?!?!” and “Give me every detail about your date,” and this has been my first opportunity as of late.

“He is so adorable,” I say when she tells me Steve has offered to take her on a music-themed first date. “I can’t wait to hear what happens next.”

As I add notches to my girl-dating belt, I’ve started reflecting on my strengths and weaknesses as a friend. I like to think I’m a pretty good one. I pride myself on my willingness to drop what I’m doing for a BFF in need. When I got a text from Callie one Friday night this summer—“Can you call me??”—I immediately ducked into the bathroom of the party I was attending to check in. There were some wedding woes, and I was happy to do my best to calm her down. Even if it meant locking myself in the host’s bathroom for twenty minutes.
When friends have birthday parties or performances, I rejigger my schedule to make sure I’m there. I’ve been lucky to have friends who are healthy and happy, but I’d be by their side if one day they weren’t.

Still, I’m hardly perfect and lately I’ve become increasingly aware of my shortcomings in the friendship department. When you spend some five nights a week with friends—whether they’re potential or established—you notice patterns in your own behavior, even when they are less than flattering.

To start, I am an interrupter. I’ll think I’m listening, but just as my friend is wrapping up a thought, as she’s presenting the big conclusion, I’ll jump in with my two cents. As I’ve become cognizant of this tendency I hear myself apologizing a lot—“Sorry! I interrupted. Continue”—and recoiling, but after twenty-eight years of cutting people off it’s as natural as blinking. I can’t stop myself. I’m trying, but so far my success rate is pitiful.

It would be one thing if I were interrupting with helpful insights—“It sounds like that was really hard on you”—or prodding questions—“And how did that make you feel?”—or even with requests for clarification—“Now, where did this happen again?” But no. I interrupt with stories. About myself.

If I’m talking to a friend about her relationship woes, I might offer a story about Matt and me. My side of conversations often sound like this: “Oh my God, you got mugged? Let me tell you about my friend who got carjacked.” Or “You love
Sex and the City
? I once saw Sarah Jessica Parker on the street!”

It’s obnoxious, I know, and now that I’ve realized I do this, I’m horrified. My improv teacher recently told a story about his neighbor, who is constantly only half listening.

“He’s one of those guys who, as you’re talking, it’s like you
can see him scrolling through his mental Rolodex, looking for the perfect story that is related enough for him to bring up, but it’s better because, you know, it stars him.”

Ew. That’s me.

It’s not that I’m trying to one-up anyone—if you tell me you ran the marathon, I’ll counter that I once trained for the half—it’s just my backward way of empathizing. I communicate that I hear you and I understand by saying “You’ll never believe what happened to me,” when what I should be saying is “I hear you and I understand.”

There was a brief period in high school when I wanted to be a psychologist one day. I think we can all agree it’s best that never came to pass.

My other friendship flaw dawned on me last night. It was my friend Lindsey’s birthday party. Lindsey was the only new friend I’d made in Chicago before this year started. For her big night, she invited a few girls out for drinks. I arrived a little late because Matt and I had been bowling with Gretchen, my new friend from the Mac ’n Cheese Minglers adventure, and her boyfriend. When I showed up at Benchmark, the new sportsbar-meets-nightclub in Old Town, there was already a line to get in. So I waited. Solo.

“Thank you so much for coming!” Lindsey said when she saw me.

“Oh, of course, I wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “I can’t believe there’s a line here already. I just had to wait alone for ten minutes in a mass of miniskirts to get in. I felt so lame in my normal-person clothes, but I haven’t even had a chance to go home yet.”

See that? What I did there? I passive aggressively said “Look at me! I am such a good friend, I would never bail on your birthday party. But let’s just recognize all the amazing things
I did for you like waiting in line alone and coming out even though it’s been such a long day.”

Sometimes I hate myself.

Why do I say these things? Do I think I deserve a medal for fulfilling the obligations of a good friend? It’s like I’m saying “Please, you don’t have to thank me! That’s what friends do,” and in the same breath trying to prove how good a friend I am for showing up when there were a few annoyances on the way. The best kind of friend shows up, period. No mention of how she fought through hell and high water to get there.

I’ve probably known for a while, at least subconsciously, that I do these things. But it’s only now that I’m majoring in friendship analysis that my faults are wriggling their way to the forefront of my consciousness. If recognizing the problem is the first step to recovery, then I’m on my way.

FRIEND-DATE 41.
I arrive at the El track at 12:45, the appointed meeting time for my RentAFriend date. Christine and I made plans to grab lunch and visit the museum. It has turned out to be too cold for the farmers’ market, and I’ve never been to the Museum of Contemporary Art.

“Christine?”

“Hi! How are you?”

My friend-for-hire is wearing jeans, a black sweater, and a blue puffy North Face jacket. Nothing about her outfit suggests that she moonlights as an escort. Good news.

As we ride downtown, Christine tells me she grew up in the northern suburbs and went to the University of Wisconsin. She’s a social worker at a nearby hospital four days a week, and lives with three roommates in Lakeview, a few blocks north of my apartment. We talk about her upcoming high school reunion, our plans for Halloween (she’ll be dressing as a dinosaur,
I’ll be hiding out at home. Costumes aren’t my thing), and how she is “single and ready to mingle.” Basically, we discuss everything except the giant elephant on the El—the fact that I leased her on the Internet.

I finally bring it up at lunch.

“So how long have you been on RentAFriend?”

“A few months maybe. Not that long. I read an article about it earlier this year, and I figured it would be a good way to make some extra money since the hospital only has the budget to pay me for part-time. It seemed shady at first, but since I have total control over who I meet I figured it would be okay.”

“Have you met anyone else through the site yet?”

“Nope, you’re my first. I’ve heard from a few men, but they all seemed totally creepy or their English was so bad I didn’t see how we’d communicate. So I told them it probably wasn’t a good idea.”

“Yeah, this is my first time, too,” I tell her. “But it sounded sort of intriguing, and I’ve been looking into new ways of making friends, so I figured I’d give it a try.”

Christine seems like a nice, normal girl, so I want to make clear I’m looking for real friendship. The free kind.

“My friends all think I’m crazy,” she says. “Even today, after I told them I was meeting a girl my age, my roommates were all ‘Make sure you bring your mace!’ ”

“That’s exactly what my family said!”

There’s something amiss about a get-together in which both parties are encouraged to carry pepper spray.

The strangest thing about this lunch is that it isn’t particularly strange. Our date is quite … usual. Almost as if we are actually friends.

Until it comes time to pay for lunch. Though we haven’t discussed it explicitly, I figure picking up the tab is part of the
gig. But then, when the check arrives, Christine does the fake wallet reach. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. It’s classic first-date behavior. You don’t actually intend to pay, but it would be rude if you didn’t at least
pretend
to offer, right? Um, yeah, I know that move. I’ve used that move.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” I say.

“Are you sure?” Christine has already stuffed her wallet back in her purse, so this is all just courtesy.

“Yup, it’s part of the deal.”

After lunch we wander around the MCA—the first floor is closed for an auction so it doesn’t take long—and prepare to part. On an otherwise solicitation-free corner of Michigan Avenue, I look at my watch. It’s almost 3
P.M.
I dig sixty dollars out of my purse.

“I feel weird taking money from you,” she says.

“Oh, you know,” I mutter as I awkwardly shove a wad of bills into her hands. “If you ever want to hang out again—like, for real—you know where to reach me.”

Yeah, this doesn’t feel like an escort situation at all.

As we head our separate ways, I take another glance at the time. Wait. If we met at 12:45, and it’s ten to 3, then I only owed Christine forty dollars. I gave her one twenty too many.

I tipped my rented friend! Kill me.

I guess she didn’t feel
that
weird taking my money.