Posts Tagged ‘friends’

party girl

I did my best to participate in the debauchery and depravity that is college life. In all honesty, I went to college to…you’ll never guess…get an education! Really. No one forced me to be there. There were no parental units guilt-tripping me into attending. The cocaine-toting, binge-drinking party-goers sort of swirled around my book-reading, homework-doing college self.

I am definitely not trying to paint some picture of a good girl. That, I was not. But, I was studious. And, I took college seriously because I was genuinely interested in learning. I had always loved school. As an escape from home but also as a place to learn about the big, wide world outside of my small-town life. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to experience everything.

I spent much of my high school career focused on extracurricular activities — college was the place for learning, I decided. College was the place to finally get a sense of the world around me. The history, the culture, the literature. I was a product of shitty, small-town schools, with the occasional incredible teacher but mostly a sea of small-minded, right-leaning, mostly white, mostly christian people. I was caught in the middle of the conservative reality of the town I called home and the liberal, commune ideology I’d grown up around.

College was, for me and for many others, a place where I could finally be myself. Or, rather, be the self I always wanted to be. I could shed the reputation I had earned/inherited, get labeled with all new adjectives, stick myself into the categories and groups I felt best defined me or supported me, and make all new friends. Friends who knew nothing about my background. People with whom I could start fresh.

It was exhilarating for me. Moving 3,000 miles away from where anyone knew my name was the most important gift I could have given my adolescent self. The gift of anonymity–where I could feel safe and free and normal.

a social life

I’ve been thinking about friendship a lot lately. Partially because I finally joined the 21st century, Instagram, and am therefore bombarded with images of happy cliques; and, partially because I’ve just moved 3,000 miles away from the place I have called home for the past 15 years. It’s gotten me to this too real place of acceptance and clarity.

In your 20’s everyone is your friend: people from high school, pals from college, work colleagues, friends of friends. You take em all. It’s like a decade of fishing where you don’t throw any back.

Then, in your 30’s you start pruning. Weeding out the emotional vampires and the “all drama all the time” crew. Some of it happens naturally–an illness in the family forces some friends to step up and others to show their true colors. Marriage, kids–some fall away naturally. You switch jobs/careers/partners and you find yourself with fewer and fewer friends. Which is actually pretty great–you spend more time with the people you genuinely love and who genuinely love you.

So, you’re chugging along, happily, with your perfect little crew of good friends. Then, all of a sudden, you make this giant life-change. And, it’s the right thing and everyone supports you but distance. Distance, man. It’s real. Time differences and work schedules, bedtimes and familial obligations and just life. Life in a new place happens. You have to restart your career and re-acclimate your kid. You have to find (or maintain) that inner circle all over again. But, how?

There are a trillion articles about making friends in your thirties. My problem isn’t making friends it’s maintaining friendships. How does one find the time as an adult? How do you prioritize friends over family or over self-care or over laziness and fatigue? How do you balance it all? This isn’t one of those, “how can we have it all” questions. This is just a very real query: how does one find the time and energy to be social in your late thirties–with a partner and a kid and a house and a career?

Where are all those extra hours the enviable #girlsquads on instagram seem to have?

 

first date // past

“Where are we going?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“It’s a surprise,” he said in that growly sexy voice. He was 18 and out of high school, I was 16 and in the thick of teenage drama with its extreme highs and gut-wrenching lows–up for anything, experimental, reckless and naive.

At a party, his hand had brushed up against mine when reaching for his beer. It was as if time had stood still. I closed my eyes and everything went in slow motion. The long stroke of his dark finger across the back of my wrist, the way his head cocked, his eyes meeting mine just for a moment.

We’d only ever hung out in groups. We’d stare at each other from across the room–his gaze intense with those dark, sunken eyes. Then he’d look away, engaged in conversation, sipping a beer, nodding in agreement. His dark jeans and motorcycle boots, that simple white shirt with the black leather jacket hanging loosely off his muscular arms. The thighs of his pants greasy from working on his bike, his jacket dusty from walking the trails. His clothes smelled like 40 ounces of Olde English. His breath, a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes.

The inside of his car filled my nostrils–musty, sweaty, the smell of a man, I thought. “How much farther?” I asked innocently. We were screeching down the windy back roads of McCourtney. I knew this road well–my parents lived way down at the end–past where anyone had ever been. Except Adam. Who also lived past the point where any towny would go. We were boondock folks. The real rural. I felt safe knowing exactly where we were. Next, we’d pass the animal shelter, then the horse ranch. Then, we’d make our way up to the highest point of the mountain–the dump on our left and the most magnificent sunsets to our right.

The road was pitch black at the darkest hour of the night. It was treacherous even in the brightest part of the afternoon on account of the truckers illegally driving these back roads to avoid tolls–big pickups with trash spewing out from under their loose-fitting tarps. Deer, rabbits, snakes, critters of all sort roamed these woods and were known for darting out into the gray abyss of pavement just as cars were coming round one of the many bends in the road.

Tonight there was a full moon and a mountain lion warning (there was was always a mountain lion warning.) “What are you doing?” I screeched with excitement and fear.

“It’s fine. I can see everything” he said, as his rough hand touched my bare knee. I felt warm between my legs. “The moon is light enough,” he assured me as my eyes adjusted to where the beam of his lights had been. We turned off to the left. Where exactly had we turned? My eyes hadn’t quite acclimated and I’d somehow missed the placement of the road we’d gone down. Had we passed the dump? Had we passed the ranch?

“I’ve never been down here,” I said, searching the trees for something familiar. It was a dirt road, narrow and completely isolated–not one house, not a single driveway, just a road that kept ascending. The trees were thick, we couldn’t see anything but the glint of moonlight off the rocks just ahead of us.

“I thought I’d show you something new,” he said. He looked at me, a crooked half-smile, “Are you scared?”

“No,” I lied, feeling my knees shaking. I let my arm hang out the open window. The cool air whistled around my fingertips, my palm stretched out like a bat soaring through the dark night. The sound of the tires kicking up rocks against the tinny underbelly of his car, the dusty smell mixing with all of his smells and the pine needles and the spring flowers–my head was filled and confused, drunk on olfactory input.

“You..” I started, sounding drunk and confused, “…smell good,” I finished. He smiled and sort of looked down at the steering wheel.

“You’re a weird kid, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “I’ve been told.” I tilted my head to the right, my ear filled with wind and my hair flapped against my bare shoulder.

“You cold?” he asked.

“Um, a little. Yeah,” I admitted, rubbing the goosebumps on my arms.

“Hang on,” he said as he guided my hand to the steering wheel, “hold this for a sec.”

“Adam, I can’t!” I screamed. “I don’t have a license…and, I can’t see anything!” He laughed. I’d never heard his laugh before. It was real. It was big and low and genuine. The kind of laugh that makes everyone around you giggle. And, so I did.

He yanked his jacket sleeves off each arm, leaned over and put it around my shoulders. “Kinda cheesy, don’t you think?” I asked. “I mean, the whole, ‘give a girl your coat’ thing. It’s very John Hughes of you.” We’d bonded over our love of eighties movies, Portishead and our parallel upbringing.

“Yeah, well, sometimes a girl just needs your jacket.” He looked at me through those heavy lids. His eyes a deep brown, his thick black rockabilly hair wind-blown and askew. He’d grown up on a commune too. He was the first kid I’d met who was like me–weird and too grown for his age–reflective, sensitive and unable to fit in anywhere.

“This is it,” he said. There were two other parked cars. He brought me to a lookout? I thought.

“It’s a little ways from here.”

“This isn’t really my thing. Where are we?” I asked anxiously.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” he whispered.

We walked, and tripped, up a rocky path for what felt like miles into a clearing. I could make out a structure–a stone building, a rounded arena or stage or…I couldn’t quite make it out. It was falling apart, there were huge chunks of rock everywhere. As we got closer I could see melted wax on some of the outer walls, red and black graffiti and movement inside.

“I don’t like it here. I don’t like it here at all, Adam. Let’s go.” I said turning fast, catching my bare leg on a blackberry bramble. I pulled at the long vine, scraping the thorns all the way down my calf.

“Hey, wait a minute..” I heard him yell.

I did my best to retrace the path we’d climbed–losing my footing every now and again. He caught up, started to say something and stopped short.

We walked in silence.

“What was that?” I asked, slamming the car door.

“I don’t know it’s just kind of a hangout. People go there to drink and chill. There’s all these weird, creepy stories about like seances and devil worshippers who like, do their magic up there or whatever. But, it’s just kids trying to freak you out.”

“It gave me the heebie jeebies and it’s weird and freaky,” I said breathlessly. I could feel the droplets of blood on my calf. I better not have stepped in poison oak, I thought. “And, keep your fucking lights on. I’m not trying to die tonight.”

He shifted nervously in his seat, gripped the steering wheel too tight and cleared his throat, “I thought you’d be into it. There’s a really great view up there. And, it’s spooky but in a cool way.”

“I get it, I’m not pissed. I just felt weird up there, that’s all. Thanks for taking off with me.”

The sound of the wind took on a different tone in the quiet of his car–eerie, cold, lonely. Adam seemed to be breathing his cigarettes, not so much smoking them. His inhalations were deep, reflective almost, and he didn’t bother to blow the smoke out so much as simply exhale it naturally.

Adam turned onto the long, dirt road. “I can walk from here,” I said.

“It’s far, it’s dark out, let me drive you.”

“No, really it’s cool,” I countered, in need of the fresh air and the moonlight and the stars and the solitary walk. He leaned over to kiss me–I let him. His breath was hot and smoky and he pushed his tongue too far down my throat. I pulled back, attempted a half-smile and said goodnight.

I stood still, in the light of the moon, at the end of my road and watched him reverse his car back onto pavement. Dust rose up where his wheels had momentarily spun out on the gravel. I watched as the red of his tail lights faded behind the second hill of our shared road.

what does it mean to be 35? let me elucidate:

  • Finding hairs on your nipples.
  • Finding hairs on your chin.
  • Finding hairs on your cheeks.
  • Just in general, lots of hair-finding–it’s like puberty all over again.
  • Re-figuring out your skin–I tamed you years ago, monster zits! Damn hormonal changes.
  • Rolls in new places. What’s that strange feeling on my back? Oh, it’s part of my body, hello new friend.
  • Realizing you don’t move the way you used to–“No, I’m not limping!” Wait, am I limping?
  • The way food begins to just stay put. Like, right smack in that mid-section, so you start to get that muffin-top roll over your mom-jeans. Feeling a little sheepish about all my judgy eye rolls at the calorie-counting women in the teachers lounge. I think my Dorito-binging days are over.
  • Having dear friends who you cherish and who love and support you through your trickiest times.
  • Not having any friends who you actually, secretly (or, not-so-secretly) dislike.
  • Being in a stable and mutually respectful relationship.
  • Making life-changing decisions that are scary and intense but knowing that, ultimately, they are the right decisions–and, therefore, not being fearful of change.
  • Eating well but allowing yourself to indulge every now and again.
  • Living frugally but allowing yourself to splurge every now and again–can you say, Book of Mormon! (Sidenote, how are those tickets still so expensive?!)
  • Being productive most days but allowing yourself some lazy, couch-potato, netflix-binging days too.
  • Reading good books and not-so-great ones without judgment.
  • Saying goodbye to the bands you thought were cool because it was so much work to listen to them. It’s all easy-listening these days. Give me a band I can hum to while I cook and I’m happy.
  • Being able to set boundaries. I love you and I will be there for you but I also have to take care of myself. Turns out you are no good to anyone if you aren’t being good to yourself.
  • Being able to say “no” guilt-free. “I can, but I don’t want to” is a perfectly fine excuse.
  • Acknowledging that you are not always right. Damn, it hurts even writing it.
  • Acknowledging that you still have so much to learn.
  • Knowing that even if you are not the smartest, the most beautiful, the most charming, the wittiest person in the room you still have a lot to offer.
  • Not being intimidated because someone has more information about a topic than you. Even when they’re super douche-y. Now, shall we talk about education? I’d love to reference fifteen acronyms that are totally meaningless to you and look at you like you should absolutely know what they mean. No? Dummy.
  • Starting with kindness but being capable of switching to intense bitchiness if the situation warrants it.
  • Being a legit adult. Teenagers look like babies to me. Seriously, how are they driving?! It’s difficult to admit, but I think I am a true-blue grownup.

work // present

As I lay stretched out on my rainbow yoga mat, staring at the beautifully shaped ass of my 22-year-old colleague I couldn’t help but have a twinge of nostalgia. For being able to dress however I wanted. For dying my hair and piercing my body parts. For eating anything and everything and suffering no metabolic consequences. Am I old? Or, am I just around too many young people?

Being a teacher sort of ages you. “Ages” isn’t quite the right term. It places you in a professional stratosphere that automatically gives you respect and power–which, feels like something that comes with “age.” Spending your days with little kids doesn’t make you feel old. It makes you feel young, playful, energetic, silly. Yes, you are exhausted by the end of the day in a way that your tiny-human counterparts are not. But, you feel young at heart. And, for the first ten or so years, you are younger than the parents of your students. Which contributes to a second level of power and prestige.

When you work with millennials and listen to their conversations–sometimes beautifully thoughtful and thought-provoking about gender and class; sometimes absurd, about sick dance parties and hilarious hookups; and sometimes offensive, “it’s just that I really thought my parents were going to keep paying my phone bill until I was, like, at least 25″–it gets you thinking about your own world. The small little bubble that you live in–filled with parenting tips and toddler tantrums, meal-planning and grocery lists, bills and savings accounts. Versus the little bubble that they live in–hookups and trash-talking, parent-drama and student loans, friendships ending and new relationships blooming. Certainly there are similarities in our lives–sometimes I come in and Glynis tells me that we are twins, wearing cuffed boyfriend jeans and oversized sweaters. Other times I come in with aches and pains, marriage woes and mom-struggles, angst over why we can’t afford to buy a damn house and we just feel decades apart. Our priorities, our goals, our relationship to the world around us. We are looking at the same sky but seeing very differently shaped clouds.

I read an article a few years ago about how much the people around you impact your life. Sounds obvious. But, this article claimed that we were not only affected by our friends and family but also by their friends and families. That, in fact, we were being shaped by people 3 steps removed from our circle. And, not just affected in an emotional sense but in many ways we are being molded by others: the way we eat, the music we listen to, our outlook on the world, our daily emotional state–whether we are prone to anger or calm, taking deep breaths or becoming anxious. This frightened me at the time. I was teaching with a nasty human who was angry at the world and angry at herself. She seethed with animosity and jealousy, rage and fear. “Oh my god,” I thought. “I am going to become like her.” I’ll start eating snickers bars for lunch and listening to Michael Buble! The horrror!

Of course, it isn’t so simple. We don’t just emulate the people around us, we are affected in subtler but deeper ways than I think we can even pinpoint. I’m not sure how Patricia affected me. Is it her fault that I am more defensive than I used to be? Can I attribute my fear of being alone to Danielle who bought a dog so she would never have to sleep solo? Did Rachel make me a better friend? Did Sara make me more courageous? Is Julie the reason I can stand up for myself? Can I thank Adam for my sense of humor? We are shaped by our circumstances, we are shaped by our families (whether we want to be or not), we are shaped by our choices and our education and our neighborhoods. But where do we end, and the exterior influences that shape us begin?

work // past

“You’ll get over him,” she whispered as she downed a shot of creamy, unfiltered sake. I’m not sad because of some guy, you twit, I thought as the 19-year-old waitress crouched down behind the sake bar with me as I sobbed. Something had set me off. Some movement of a plate or a gentle hand gesture, maybe it was the way that elegant woman had unfolded her napkin–something had unleashed the well of sadness that had been lingering just below the surface. I had turned from the table, plates in hand, a stream of tears falling from my chin, and silently slid down the wall until I was out of sight. I had planned on a quiet cry, just letting the sadness valve open for a short time–until I could find some way of plugging it up and getting back to work.

She offered me a shot, “If they don’t drink it, we shouldn’t just let it go to waste.” We had a policy of eating any untouched sushi and drinking any unfinished sake. “It’s not like they’re drinking from the bottle,” we’d told ourselves. “They didn’t actually touch the sushi. I mean, it’s on an entirely different plate. It’s totally not gross to eat off a platter of unfinished food,” we’d convinced each other. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her that I was mourning. Mourning my mothers slow decline into nothingness, watching her body finally decay the way I had watched her mind rot over the past five years–not the demise of some crush. I didn’t have the patience to watch as she attempted to grasp the seriousness of my situation, the weight of the truth. I couldn’t bear to politely nod as she fumbled around for some platitude that would serve only to make her feel better. You live in a bubble, I thought as I stared into her dark eyes, following the shine of her tightly pulled back ponytail, down her slender shoulders, over her perfect tits.

I was only a few years older than her but it felt like we lived on different planets. She, with her pressed black pants and heels, next to my threadbare Dickies and black sneakers–how did she wear those heels all day? We must have covered two miles during our 8-hour shift–not to mention all the bending down to place the bowls just so and the ginger to the left and the wasabi on the right and all the trekking back to the kitchen, carrying boxes of avocados and bags of shredded cabbage. I got a weekly lecture on how my shirts weren’t clean enough, “But, I washed them, I swear,” I lied. I had two shirts to wear to work, which meant if I worked 5 days a week, I’d have to do laundry twice during my workweek. I didn’t even have a car–I hitchhiked to work every day–how was I supposed to hitch (arms filled with dirty clothes) to the laundromat twice a week? Meanwhile, she looked like she’d bought a new shirt for each shift. I was fresh out of college–filled with sermons on feminism and class struggles, on systemic racism and the wealth gap. I had traveled Europe and the U.S., I’d lived outside our small town for four years and would never have returned had my mother not been dying. She was fresh out of high school, no desire to go to college, no desire to do much beyond wait tables and look beautiful. What a wonderful life, I thought, staring at her manicured hands. I’ll never feel that. I will never know what it’s like to be unburdened, to be young, to be free from responsibility.

“Yeah, he’s a real shit,” I said–creating the version of my life she could comprehend. “But, I’ll get over it, him, whatever.” I faltered. “Totally,” she said through her bright white teeth. “Now, let’s get back to work before Madame sees us!” She grabbed my arm, handed me another shot of sake and stacked my plates. “You’ll so find someone better,” she offered as a parting sentiment. “Yeah,” I responded. “Totally replaceable.”

 

oh, boy

so, i’m having one of those days. you know the kind. maybe i’m having one of those weeks, even. where punctuation just seems superfluous and getting dressed feels like an overwhelming task. forget showers. and, who needs makeup these days? i don’t know exactly why. moving stress. pressure to see people and do things. keeping track of way too many things in my brain: moving van, packing materials, medical records, refilling prescriptions, selling this dresser, giving this shelf away, bringing these four bags to the thrift store, bringing this box to the used book store, scheduling dental appointments, finishing up work tasks, doing all those last-minute new york city must-do things! it’s just too much. and, we’re trying to be all on top of shit by packing early but really we just keep spending time with our friends because…when will we see them again?! and, you know, we’re not cooking enough and we may have gotten rid of our plates a tad too early and we can’t replace the grapeseed oil because how can we go through a bottle in 3 weeks but also HOW WILL I MAKE POPCORN?!

so, i think it’s safe to say that the stress has officially gotten to me.

i’m not sleeping, i’m eating a lot of chocolate and my belly has that constant butterfly feeling like i’m about to get onstage and perform.

we got a tree. i thought it would make me feel all, in-the-spirit and festive. i just keep looking at that thing with total animosity. it’s got a real attitude problem, let me tell you. it’s just sitting in the corner of our livingroom being all beautiful and put together, staring into our chaos and judging. it’s a judgy little fucker, i mean it. tall, perfectly “tree”-shaped (some might say a bit too perfect, really. i mean, come on. show off), it’s all sparkly and calm and it just stands around. doesn’t offer to help out or pick up. it’s not doing any of the cooking and that bitch can drink! i mean, we are filling her bucket up at least once a day.

so between my judgy tree and the million tasks i’m attempting to stay on top of and still working full-time and a toddler who is becoming less and less comfortable with her dwindling book collection…things are about to get real. like, life is changing in a huge way ‘real’. like, everything you have known and everything you thought you wanted is about to be in your past ‘real’. like, the place you ran from, the place you thought you would never return to is about to be your future ‘real.’ and, truthfully it all sounds a bit terrifying. wonderful and filled with potential. exciting and exhilarating. and also gut-wrenchingly terrifying.

gratitude

I am thankful for…more things than I can possibly list. Here are a few from today:

  • husbandhead–who continues to love me even when i’m a total nightmare
  • my brilliant and hilarious kid–i don’t know where you came from but i’m so glad you’re mine
  • my sisters–i could not be in this world without them
  • my totally rad in-laws–lucked out there
  • my ridiculously, incredible, loving, supportive friends–the family i chose
  • great food
  • red wine and whiskey
  • pecan pie
  • candlelight
  • my (mostly) good health
  • fall
  • a great cheese platter
  • warm and loving people who make me feel warm and loved
  • perspective

bad choices and the friends you make them with // past

It was just before midnight. We were all hanging out in the parking lot of our high school theater after a Saturday night show. We were riding high, feeling like superstars. We’d had a great review in the local paper and a packed house since opening night. We were still in our stage makeup — white faces and red-orange lips. I was wearing tight capris, a white muscle tank and black converse. My uniform of the month. Partially inspired by my character, Rizzo, who was a badass and, I thought, a true feminist.

A few of the local musicians who’d been performing in our live orchestra were hanging out. They were older and cooler and capable of legally purchasing alcohol. We drank forties crouched behind the concrete steps, ducking behind the large, round pillars when security circled around, shining their patrol lights in our direction.

I was adventurous. Some may say, wild. But, I was always safe. Well, mostly safe. I never drove drunk. I never drove with someone who had been drinking. I always had a party-buddy and we watched out for each other. If she passed out, I was in charge of getting her home safely and vice versa. We also had a designated driver, non-participant-partier, who was so damn sweet and such a good friend. And, also a Mormon. Which meant that he never drank and never did drugs and was always available to drive us home or hold our hair while we puked or carry us in his well-tanned, muscular arms after we decided to roll down a rocky hill. An idea that seemed really amusing before the scrapes and bruises set in.

“Your turn!” one of the guys shouted in my direction. It looked fun. It seemed pretty stupid, I knew that even then. But, the guys made it look so easy. “You just jump out and start running,” they’d explained. Like it was as simple as pulling on a pair of socks. Jump out of a fast-moving car and you will be fine. Sure.

“Okay, go!” I screamed. The green door of Sid’s Volvo was wide open, the toes of my chucks peering from the sticky, carpeted floor onto the dark pavement. As the car sped up, I started to reconsider my choice. This is crazy, I thought. I can’t do this. But before I could lose my nerve — or my standing as the toughest chick they knew — I jumped. At first it seemed fine. I was pummeling through the air fast — faster than I’d ever run on my own — but my legs were moving. My feet were hitting the asphalt so hard I could feel the muscles in my thighs constricitng and my knees were already aching. But, I was so busy screaming and smiling and flailing my arms and keeping up with my feet that I didn’t see the curb. That little six-inch block of concrete. That unassuming, completely inconspicuous piece of scenery. It had never seemed like a threat before. But to a human running faster than her body is capable, hurtling at the speed of an automotive, it was enough to stop me in my tracks. Well, no, actually, it was enough to send me flying through the air, in a high arc, which ended with my right knee on the sidewalk. All of my weight, all of that inertia. Knee, meet concrete. Concrete, meet and destroy knee.

“I’m fine. I’m fine!” I shouted, forcing back the ocean of tears stinging behind my eyes, hoping that my tight capris would contain my already swelling knee. “Haha, it’s all good,” I lied. “That was hella crazy. I’m gonna go get a drink of water,” I said, limping toward the fountain on the other side of the theater lot.

“Are you okay?” Josh asked, running up behind me.

“I’m fine. Jesus! Leave me alone! What the fuck?!” I screamed at him, embarrassed that he’d noticed I was hurt. I had hoped to limp off into the dark, get some water, assess the damage, maybe cry a little and then return to the group and pretend that I was fine.

“Hey! Not cool. Don’t yell at me just because I’m the only one who actually came to see if you were okay. You’re obviously hurt,” he said. He was right. I knew it was bad. My knee was already the size of a softball and I couldn’t straighten my leg beyond a ninety-degree angle. He reached his arm under me and helped me to the drinking fountain. I took a long swig and smiled up at him.

“Thanks,” I offered. “You’re right. Thanks for being the only one who gives a shit.”

“Sure. Are you okay? Seriously?”

“I’ll be fine. Can you bring your car around. I think I need to get some ice on this. Will your mom be cool with me coming over again tonight?” I asked, skeptical he’d say yes. I’d been sleeping at his place almost every night for two months.

“Of course. You know she loves you. God, she loves you more than me, I think,” He replied. He must have told his mom what’s going on at my house, I thought. Or maybe she’s just super chill. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. They had central air in the summer and heated floors in the winter. They had a huge house with clean, waxed wooden floors and a hot tub and a giant kitchen that was always stocked with food. It was heavenly.

“Cool. You’re the best,” I sniffled as he guided me to the grass. “I’ll wait for you here.”

 

relationships // present

You’d think I would have learned my lesson about matchmaking. I’ve had a few epic fails that should have forever discouraged my efforts.

Perhaps I persevered because I assumed it only applied to romantic endeavors. Well, as it turns out, it is just relationships in general. Just, matching humans with other humans that I am bad at.

This past weekend I attempted to link two of my favorite couple friends. I thought, we love these people. Why wouldn’t they love each other? We all have kids about the same age, we’re all fairly liberal-leaning, we’re raising our kids in similar manners, we are somewhat similar in income levels, no one is too snobby but we’re all a bit snobby in just the right ways 😉 Everyone is in a committed relationship that works for them. Perfect, no?

I pictured renting a house by the lake in the Adirondacks every fall, a winter cabin in the Catskills where our kids would build snow people and drink hot cocoa. We’d all take turns going out on date nights, we’d drink wine and make elaborate, decadent meals. We’d be the dynamic six! Raising kids, working hard and still making friends in our thirties!

Well, best laid plans.

Perfect, dream world, fantasy stuff. That’s what that was.

Turns out my super-awesome friends who I adore and want to share do not so much adore one another. How this could be true, I do not know. They are all — all of them(!) — wonderful people. Like, friends forever folks. But, then again, my two best girlfriends are friends (in air quotes) who, I am quite sure would cease to even attempt to maintain the illusion of friendship if I were taken out of the equation.

Why is that Sex and the City foursome so incredibly difficult to actualize. Who are these people who like each other all exactly the same amount? Four besties. Who has that? I have all these wonderful friends but I get them in a room and my teacher friends don’t know what to say to my college friends and my musician friends have no clue how to interact with my mommy friends and then add my husbands friends (who have now become my friends) into the mix and it’s just a shit show of awkward exchanges and crappy small talk.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m guilty of it too. I go to my husband’s friends’ weddings and I have no clue what to say to people. I use my daughter as an excuse to get out of any conversation that isn’t going well. “Oh, darn. She’s gotta go potty. Talk later…” or “She’s getting so tired, I’ve really gotta get going. Great to meet you…” I mean, it’s bad. Who am I? What have I become? I used to pride myself on this social crap. I was the queen of banter. The master bullshitter. I could hang with anyone. Rich, poor, liberal, conservative, old, young. I was the puppet master. Now I use the cheap, I’m sorry, my mouth is filled with hors d’ oeuvres so I can’t talk to you, excuse. Or the, I see you coming for me so I’m going to duck into the other room to grab my phone which is probably, no, definitely ringing. Silently. But, I am expecting a call. So, I’ve definitely got to grab this, trick. The eye aversion, what a delightful chandelier. The, I see someone I actually know beeline. The, excuse me I need to ______ (use the bathroom/get a drink/find my husband) line.

I have no idea what happened. It’s not for lack of confidence or a lack of topics to discuss. It’s not because I don’t find the people interesting or because I think I’m better than anyone. It’s just pure laziness, I think. Really. Honestly. It’s the, I am so fucking tired and the last thing I want to do is chit chat, reality of adulthood and parenthood.

And, so maybe this is the problem with my couple friends. It’s not a wedding reception but it’s kind of the same idea. I already have friends. I’m already stretched too thin between my job and my kids and the few friends I do have so why would I make time or put forth any effort to extend my circle to include people who’s company I may (or, more likely may not) even enjoy? I get it. It’s a bummer. But, I get it. I feel the same way. I just have selfish motivation for creating these bonds. All I want is a damn cabin in the woods and a few friends who get along to split the cost. Is that really too much to ask? Sheesh.

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