Authors: Rachel Bertsche
“It’s Monday night. We’ll pass,” Hilary says.
We take this as our cue to leave, but not before Hilary and I make plans to go to yoga tomorrow. I hop in a cab, excited and surprised that the night was so much fun. There’s a warm and fuzzy tingling I don’t recognize. Could it be an inkling of friendship? The realization that between Hannah and Hilary, I might have two new, local friends? That are all mine? I look out onto the skyline of my not-so-new city and for the first time I feel like a Chicagoan. Like, just maybe, I belong.
The next day, I’m on a post-date high. I’m so pleased with how my evening went that I’m not even fazed when Hilary texts me to bail on yoga. Something about dinner plans she couldn’t change. I should be disappointed—our first follow-up and she’s already canceling—but I’m too encouraged by the fact that my Judgy McJudgersonness was off base. For the past seven weeks I’ve been sizing up the prospects before we’d even met: She lives in a fancy neighborhood, must mean she’s trendy and too high-maintenance; she posts smiley faces on Facebook, must be a saccharine dud. The fact that Hilary turned out to have big-time potential makes me think that my having so many preconceived notions of who my BFF would be is exactly why she doesn’t yet exist.
Going forward, I’m vowing to approach each date with an open mind. I can’t completely rid myself of natural tendencies, but just being aware that I tend to write people off too early should help matters. I’ll say yes to every invitation (when they start pouring in). Sure, I’m shy and judgmental when it
comes to meeting new people, but things can change. Hilary surprised me. Who’s next?
FRIEND-DATE 8.
I’m especially excited about dinner with Jen, an old Northwestern classmate, because after just a few emails I’ve scored an Evite to her birthday party. I’m glad to have penetrated the outer circle, but that’s the easy part. Now I need to see where exactly I belong on the friendship ladder. I’ve already told Matt we’ll be attending the shindig, to which he responded with a halfhearted “Okay.” I expect to be met with more reluctance closer to the date, but I take note of the fact that, whether he was listening or not, he agreed. It’s not that Matt hates human interaction or anything—he’s great in a crowd, a real charmer—but the group of people at this party will undoubtedly be his ex-girlfriend’s crew. We’re married now, and she’s engaged, so in theory we’ve all moved on. But still, it could be weird.
In the planning stages of our dinner, I suggested Jen invite her friend Alison. Yes, I know this goes against everything I stand for—I’d be the first to march the anti-threesome-date picket line—but I’ve known Jen and Alison, as a duo, since college. Asking one without the other feels wrong. So I don’t.
The three of us meet at Flat Top, the downtown location of a stir-fry restaurant we loved in college. Jen and Alison are your quintessential Midwestern BFFs. Pretty, blond, totally wholesome-looking. They could be cover girls for
Today’s Chicago Woman
or, better yet,
Windy City BFF Weekly.
While playing catch-up, we exchange updates on all our mutual acquaintances. I try to nonchalantly get in some questions about Matt’s ex.
“So, when’s Molly getting married?”
“Um, like, January?” Phrasing statements as questions is a sure sign of discomfort. I ignore this.
“Oh, that’s nice, where? Georgia?” I’m trying to sound cavalier, and Molly’s from Atlanta.
“Yeah, I think so.” Jen looks to Alison for confirmation. Or maybe a bailout.
“Gotcha. Well do you have a lot of bachelorette parties coming up?” I’m putting on a bad show, pretending to ask only because we’ve talked about their whole college gang and not because, eight years later, I’m still irrationally wary of Molly. But Jen and Alison know I’ve always been disturbingly fascinated with their friend.
They’re both noticeably tight-lipped. Either they’ve had a falling-out, or Molly has told them not to even utter her name in my presence. Both scenarios are plausible, but from where I’m sitting she’s starting to feel like the elephant in the room. I decide to let it go. For now.
Other than Molly’s looming presence, the dinner is great. I really like them both. I liked them in college, too, but we were in different groups of friends and, given the fact that I competed with their BFF for Matt’s affection sophomore year, a close friendship was never in the cards. Maybe things are different now. We talk TV, their new book club (what is it with this town? For two years I couldn’t find a book group anywhere and suddenly they’re slapping me in the face), career goals, and Jen’s upcoming party. We laugh a lot. Eventually they ask about our wedding and, because they knew Matt so well in college, I tell them about his father. Then I mention my own father’s death, only in reference to how bittersweet it was that I could be there for Matt in such a real way.
At the end of the evening Jen turns to Alison. “Can you drive me around Saturday so I can pick up some stuff for my party?”
The request is so nonchalant. Just a favor between best friends. There was no “This is probably a huge pain but …” or “Can you do me the biggest favor in the world?” Just “Can you drive me around?” No big thing. That’s what I want! I want to drive someone on errands!
That
is friendship. I think about offering to be said driver, but bite my tongue. “Hi, I know this is the first time we’ve hung out in, like, ever, but I’ll give up my Saturday to be your chauffeur!” I’ve learned to avoid overt signs of friendship desperation.
The next day, I get on Facebook to do some detective work. A quick peek through Alison’s pictures tells me she went to visit Molly in Atlanta not too long ago. There was no falling-out. I wonder what this means for our relationship. Will it be impossible for us to be close? Maybe, but probably not. Molly lives far away and if they’ve been told not to mention her, at least they haven’t been asked to avoid me. Or if they have, they didn’t listen. They probably just don’t want to betray their friend. I can respect that, even if I’m denied not-at-all-valuable-but-still-fascinating information. It speaks highly of how they’ll treat me if this friendship develops. As Joseph Epstein writes in
Friendship: An Exposé
, “Considering the obligations owed to genuine friends, at a minimum I should say that loyalty, or at least the absence of betrayal, is among them.”
The biggest barrier to bestfriendship with these two is the fact that they’ve already got a tight-knit local group. There are two other girls from their college crowd in town, plus Alison has a twin sister. Their friendship slots might call for impressive résumés.
FRIEND-DATE 9.
Becca. Friend of a friend. Actually, she’s the friend of two friends. On paper, she’s just like me. Similar
upbringing, except she was raised in a Chicago suburb rather than a New York one. In person, she’s … nice. Still, the most exciting part of the date was my Asian chicken salad.
Moving right along …
On the night of Jen’s birthday party, Matt and I are among the first to arrive. We set up shop near the kitchen and chat with Alison and other former classmates. It’s a pleasant low-key evening. On our way out, I stop to say goodbye to Jen. She pulls me aside. “Just after we had dinner, Alison’s father died,” she tells me.
“Wait, what? After we had dinner
last week
?” I ask.
“Yeah, I know. It happened the next day. We’re trying to support her, but we don’t really know what to say. I thought maybe, since you’ve been through it …”
“Of course. I’ll reach out.”
On the way home, I think about the news. How was Alison at the party only a week later? What happened? I think about how strange it is that I mentioned my dad, and Matt’s, at dinner, and how unfortunately this is probably my in. It reminds me of the
Grey’s Anatomy
episode that aired just after my own father died, when Christina welcomes George into the Dead Dads Club. It’s not a fun crowd to belong to, but there’s a bond between members. This really does feel like social identity support in action. Somber as it may be, I identify among the fatherless. In my twenties, I don’t have many friends who can relate.
On Monday morning, I send Alison a condolence email. After the standard “I’m so sorry,” I write: “I know you have tons of close friends here in Chicago, but if you ever want to talk to someone who’s been through the same thing pretty recently (twice, sorta), I’m always here. Or, if you want to sit
around and watch
The Office
and not talk about it, I’m good at that, too.” Researchers say you’re more likely to find satisfaction from supporting others than from getting support yourself, and in this moment I recognize how true that is. Alison may not be my best friend, she may never be, but it feels good to engage in some real friendship behaviors. To lend a hand and say, “Hi. I’m here.”
I get a message the next day that, yes, Alison would love to get together. “I meant to tell you Saturday, but there’s no easy way to do it, especially at a party,” she writes. “It would be really nice to talk to someone who’s been through this. Everyone has been really great, but most people (thankfully) can’t relate and so I find myself not talking about it a lot when I probably should.” We make plans to have lunch.
Because the universe is bizarre, that same day I notice the Facebook status of another former college classmate, Katherine. It reads: “Dad’s final mention in
The Washington Post.
Fitting it should be above the fold.” The link brings me to her father’s obituary. Katherine and I weren’t good friends at school, but we worked on a group project together and had always liked each other. Just a few months ago I ran into her at our college reunion and she made some vague reference to getting cupcakes together at the bakery on my corner sometime. I decide to write her an email, and then immediately feel like a dirty ambulance-chaser. Is this my friend-making approach? Find people whose fathers have recently kicked the bucket and prey on their need to talk? Ew.
I write the email anyway. Even if my motives are 75 percent selfish, I appreciated all the messages I got after my dad died, and extending an offer of support is the nice thing to do. If I get a new friend out of it, so much the better. I compose a
similar email to the one I wrote Alison. I hit send. I never hear back.
When Alison and I meet for lunch, we share some small talk before getting into the deep stuff. She tells me, clearly embarrassed, that even though it has been two weeks she still thinks about her father every day.
“Alison! Two weeks? That’s, like, zero time,” I say. “And it doesn’t go away, at least not for a while. My dad died three and a half years ago and I still think about him at least once a day.”
She seems both disappointed and pleased to hear it. Her father’s death was sudden, he wasn’t sick for seven years like my dad was, so she hadn’t prepped for this grief—if one can ever really prepare for such a thing. Alison wells up as she talks about her dad not walking her down the aisle, I mention how bummed I am that my kids won’t have a Grandpa. We laugh at how uncomfortable people get even saying the word “father” in our presence. Just last week a coworker said to me: “I went home and was watching TV with my dad—oh, God, sorry …”
It’s a nice, if sad, meal. We part with a hug and my reiteration that she can call or email if she ever wants to talk. I don’t know if she’ll reach out, but I do feel like we’ve made a small connection.
Jen and Alison. Add them to the promising pile.
The thing about the ever-growing list of potential friends is that that’s all it is. After two months, Alison’s the only best friend prospect I’ve gone out with more than once. I’ve spent time with Hannah at book clubs, but everyone else has so far been a one-hit wonder. I had this idea that once I reached out
and got the first girl-date on the books, it would get easier. I made the first move, so they’d make the second. Reciprocation is a primary rule of friendship. But here’s the thing—these people aren’t my friends yet, so the rules don’t apply. I can’t expect them to start calling me for brunch dates after only one meeting. It’d be nice, but it’s not required. When it comes to friend-dating, I think I’ve been screwed by romance. Women are used to being the askees, not the askers. You can tell me twenty-first-century women are a different breed, but not the women I know. We want to be pursued. It’s flattering to feel like we’re wanted. But what happens when two women are trying to build a relationship? Then what? You’ve got two BFF-wannabes, waiting by the phone for the other one to call.
There’s a theory in social psychology called the familiarity principle. The more you see someone, the more you’ll like her. It kind of makes me want to stand on the corner near Hannah’s and Hilary’s apartments and coincidentally bump into them on their way to work. Every day. Except I think that’s called stalking.
The familiarity principle is a good argument for why I need to keep pursuing the friends I’m interested in. If they don’t reach out, it’s not that they don’t like me (well, not necessarily), but that I’m not top of mind. I need to be more familiar.
I decide to institute a new plan. For the friends with potential, I will follow up at least once. Two or three times if I really want this bestfriendship to happen. At that point, if she still isn’t reaching out I can give up. It can’t be a one-way street forever.
FRIEND-DATES 10 AND 11.
The common thread with potential best friends one through nine is that I shared a mutual
acquaintance or network (school, camp, book club) with each. I figured this would be helpful in forging a bond. It’s always nice to have a friend in common, a way to assure ourselves that the maybe-BFF isn’t a serial killer. That’s why the name game is usually one of our first exchanges when I meet someone new. It puts the other person in context and gives me somewhere to go for the real scoop. “What’s the deal with her husband?” “Is she open to new friends?” “Is she my type?”
Research backs this up. In the early 1900s, a German sociologist put forth the theory of triadic closure: that one’s friends will find it easy to become friends with each other. These days, scientists use Facebook and the like to prove the theory’s validity. They say triadic closure helps explain exclusionary social cliques and why we tend toward building social networks rather than a smattering of individual friendships.