MWF Seeking BFF (42 page)

If this whole year was an experiment in extreme friending, this last month is like the X Games. And not just because I bashed my head in. In an effort to find my final dates, I did a wellness cleanse at my yoga studio, a flash mob with my dance school, and sent three invitations to women on
GirlfriendSocial.com
, another online friending site. The cleanse and flash mob were semi-successful. I met Georgia and Judy, both of whom seemed like ideal friend material. And both seemed eager to hang out … after the holidays. The same was true of Samantha, the new yoga buddy I met at Meredith’s Chanukah party. My January is already packed.

GirlfriendSocial.com
, where you can read women’s profiles and email them through the site, was a bust. I heard back from none of my prospects.

Like Mom said, something will come up. I’m confident. Until it does, I’m using this time not to scavenge for dates but to let the effects of this year soak in.

Take two weeks ago. It was a Friday night and my nerves were working overtime. Why? Because I was about to get onstage, in front of strangers, and perform.

I’d just finished my third level of improv class, and graduation
from level three involved a show. (Or a “demonstration,” as my teacher said to ease my anxiety.) I’d never planned on progressing that far, but when registration came around a third time I couldn’t bear the thought of dropping out. Having this group of people to come back to every week, friends with whom I played silly games and who encouraged me to act childish and crazy, became a necessary comfort. I was part of something. I felt loyal to my classmates. When they asked me to keep going, how could I say no?

And so this friend-search led me to the Second City stage. Matt was in the audience, with my mom, Alex, and Jaime. I was so nervous about performing that I didn’t invite any of my new friends. I can only make an ass of my myself in front of so many people at a time.

I ended up in a skit with a male classmate. Thanks to an audience suggestion, we were beekeepers, and I’d been stung.

My costar grabbed me by the shoulders.

“You need to wear your official beekeeping gloves!”

“I know, but I hate them,” I said. “They make me look fat.”

It got a hearty audience laugh. I could see Matt in the audience, beaming with pride, and I could see the question on his face was the same one in my head.

Where did this girl come from?

My quest for friendship hasn’t just made me more independent, it’s made me more adventurous. Relationships are solidified in these vulnerable, step-outside-the-box, how-did-I-get-here moments. And if they’re not, you still have something to show for your time. Dancing in a flash mob on the cold and rainy streets of Chicago was embarrassing. Certainly. I wasn’t especially good and I forgot the moves a few times. And since we danced to the eighties track “Weird Science,” I had to wear
glasses that I guess were supposed to resemble a mad scientist’s but looked more like Edna Mode of
The Incredibles.
So yeah, it was a bit mortifying. But mostly it was fun. Hopefully I’ll go out with Judy one day, but even if I don’t, at least I can say I did it. I used to watch flash mob videos—the Grand Central Station or Trafalgar Square viral hits—and get jealous because it looked like so much fun. Now I’ve been there.

Rachel and I celebrated our big stage debut at dinner with our families. Our moms sat next to each other, talking quilts, while we debriefed the show. After two margaritas and too much guacamole, we met our classmates at a nearby bar. It was a treat to finally introduce Matt to my fellow improvisers. Hearing Eddie tell me my husband was supersexy? The cherry on top.

As promised, Matt has been a real sport this month. Aside from the Chanukah party and improv outing, he hung out with the book club girls at Hannah’s 30th birthday party, ate dinner with Jordan, and joined me for dinner dates with Kelly and her husband, Bob, Jillian and the kids, and Margot and Daniel. Some of these encounters were a hit—Matt thought Jordan was hysterical, and really got along with Bob and Daniel—and will hopefully be repeated down the road. Others, like girl talk with the book club, were cut short because he wanted to go to bed early and forcing him to stay and talk books was more trouble than it was worth. Matt doesn’t read much fiction, so it’s useless to drag him into the conversation just because I feel like he’s supposed to be there.

The only friends he hasn’t met yet are the cooking club girls, the very same ladies who think he’s Snuffleupagus. One day …

Tonight is the holiday party and gift exchange with my co-workers. The plan is to go to Kari’s house for dinner, drinks, and Glee Karaoke Revolution. I’m excited to celebrate this year with my work BFFs. When I started my search I said these ladies were probably my closest friends in Chicago. A year later this is still true. Given the amount of time we spend together during the week, it’s no surprise.

If there’s one single factor that can turn a potential BFF into a real one, it’s consistency.

But still, we rarely see one another on weekends and, while we’re close, I know some of them have deeper local friendships than ours. Who knows what will happen when we change jobs and don’t have work gossip to dish or get to see one another every weekday? It would certainly eliminate one of our most popular conversation topics. This is what frightens me most about the idea of ever giving up the office life.

Just last week I left a particularly stressful day of work and all I could think about was going home and feasting. I’ve watched enough
Biggest Loser
to know that’s called eating your feelings, so I made the executive decision that instead of devouring my stress that night, I’d drink it. Not at alcoholic levels, just a glass of wine—or two—after work. Drinks would better help curb the stress than shoving my face full of cheese, and Dr. Oz says one glass of red a night does the body good, right?

The moment I got home I was struck with an overwhelming urge to run this stream of consciousness by my coworkers. If I’d been at work I would have IM’d Ashley immediately—“I’ve decided to drink my stress instead of eat it, thoughts?”—and she would have said “great decision” and that would be that. I’ve come to rely on them as a sounding board for my every minor musing, whether it be, “Should I read
The Hunger Games
?” or “Do you support my decision to buy Birkenstocks?”
(The answers were “Definitely” and “Absolutely not” respectively.) I talk to them about the big stuff, too—my career goals and family issues—but I don’t
need
them for that. I have Matt or Callie or Sara or Alex or my mom or any of my close friends across the country for the serious issues. It’s the trivialities that I crave my coworkers for. They have become my four-jars-of-pickle people.

We get to Kari’s house at 7
P.M.
Our host was in Australia for the last two weeks, so there’s a lot of catching up to do. After we inhale two homemade pizzas and plenty of appetizers, Kari makes an announcement.

“I got you guys a little something while I was away,” she says. “They’re nothing huge, but were made by the Aboriginals.”

We dig our hands into her gift bag and each grab a different colored beaded bracelet.

“They’re like grown-up friendship bracelets,” Kari says.

Wowser. I don’t believe in The Secret, but if I did I would swear I manifested this moment. My bracelet is white, gold, and yellow, and fits my wrist perfectly.

Our gift exchange is similarly successful. We know each other so well that each present is tailor-made for the recipient. I got Kari a Young Adult book I’d recommended for her trip—she passed because it was still in hardcover—and the debut album from Mark Salling (aka Puck from Glee).

Joan gave me three books she knew I’d love, and a pinecone ball—a nod to a project we worked on together during which I got enraged that children would actually give pinecone balls (not pinecone ornaments, mind you, just balls for an end table) to their teachers for Christmas. Perhaps it’s a question for another day, but seriously, why would someone want a ball made out of pinecone for Christmas? It’s like getting coal! Coal that sheds pinecone needles all over your living room floor!

“Why is it so much more fun exchanging gifts with friends than with family?” Kari asks.

“Because friends actually know you,” Joan says.

Amen.

“It’s amazing that you found people so much like you,” my mom says when I tell her that I sang the
Glee
soundtrack at the top of my lungs all night.

“I know, I lucked out.”

But it’s not just my coworkers. The book club I’m in with Hannah and Jillian had a gift exchange, and one of the members got me a T-shirt with my favorite
Modern Family
quote. (“WTF? Why the face?”) Natalie constantly forwards me articles about our favorite branch of yoga or
Harry Potter.
Hilary consistently invites me out to meet more of her friends, since she knows I’m on the hunt. And at our last dance class, Jordan brought me a mix of her favorite studying music to help me cope with my mounting workload. It’s these moments that make me think, “It worked. I have real local friends.”

Deep relationships are made of more than gifts and emails, of course. Looking back, part of my loneliness last year came from having so much friendly energy to give and nowhere to direct it. Now I get a rush from being the great pal I set out in search of. Like last weekend. Cooking club Jackie had surgery on her deviated septum Friday night, so on Saturday I brought her a Snuggie and read in her living room while she slept. Or a few Tuesdays ago, when I told the guy working the Second City front desk that Rachel thought he was cute and slipped him her number.

They went out the following week.

The night after my coworker gathering is my final holiday party of the season. It’s the eve of Christmas Eve and the theme is Ugly Christmas Sweaters. I’m wearing a red turtleneck and black cardigan with puffy-painted holly designs that I bought at a thrift store. Not the best wardrobe for picking up new friends, but it’ll have to do. I’m still one date short of the finish line, and while I met a freelance writer at Hannah’s birthday party who might be a match, I’d like to meet someone tonight too. It’s good to have reserves.

“Rachel, this is my friend Taylor.” Riki, a girl with whom I went to college but hardly know, gives a thin brunette wearing a light purple shirt and a silver scarf—no reindeer sweater for her—a friendly shove in my direction. “She just moved here from New York, where she worked in publishing. I thought you guys might have a lot to talk about.”

Taylor relocated to Chicago in September. She was a children’s book editor in Manhattan, but after four years in the Big Apple she was ready to come home. Now she’s living with her parents in the suburbs while she looks for a job.

“What kind of work are you interested in?” I ask.

“Anything editorial. I’m doing some freelance copywriting at the moment, but would love a more steady gig.”

“There might be an opening in my office. This is our copy editor’s last week and I don’t think we’ve hired a new one.”

Taylor looks interested but skeptical. When you’re job searching, most potential leads amount to nothing.

We chat a bit more about the editorial scene in Chicago, and, later, as Matt and I say our goodbyes, Taylor asks me to let her know about the job.

“Sure thing.” The problem is that I don’t have Taylor’s contact information, or even her last name. If she’s serious about wanting a job, isn’t that something she should have provided?

Yes, I could have asked for it. Maybe I
should
have asked for it. But I didn’t realize the mistake until I was in a cab home.

On the Monday after Christmas, my final girl-date prospect—the one I met at Hannah’s—tells me she’s in Florida and asks if we can get together after the new year. I’m slamming my head against the wall—what’s a girl gotta do to get a date around here?—when I remember Taylor.

Anna, our current copy editor, sits in the cubicle across from me. “Has your position been filled yet?” I ask.

“No. We can’t find anyone good.”