Heyyy, happy first day of fall. I’m feeling less grumpy about summer’s end with each day that’s mercifully below 90 degrees. Bring on the breeze n’ leaves.
In this issue:
Series refresher
The Friendship Series Part 3: Alain
10 Things to Fill You Up
Welcome back to The Friendship Series, where I’m picking back up with another story about seeking new friendship as a thirty-something.
In Part 1, I wrote about the beauty of having a best friend, the relationship with mine, and the acceptance of that friendship’s end. In Part 2 and beyond, I’m sharing how I’ve met new friends. If that sounds like awkward ground to tread – to write about new friendships before they’ve even been cemented – that’s probably because it is. But here goes nothin’! Anything for the craft, amiright?
Alain
I met Alain through one of the more unconventional approaches to friendship. Put simply, she dated my ex right after me. The basic backstory, which went down four years ago, went like this: I broke up with him, he moved out, I swiftly regretted it and implored him to get back together, he asserted his need to move on. Fair.
In hindsight, it was for the best. But at the time I was going through it because he had started dating Alain, a thin, indie dream girl type who, in a parallel universe, I could see myself being friends with. That I thought she seemed cool made her role of “ex’s new girl” even worse.
I didn’t know much about her, just that she followed me on Instagram, had a pretty wildflower tattoo on her ribcage, had a delicate sort of beauty and appeared to have a sweet, poetic disposition. When I showed her Instagram to my best friend, Jill (because of course I did), she noted two things: 1) “she looks cool” and 2) “she kind of looks like me.” It’s true, she and Jill have a similar facial structure or style or some inexplicable kindred essence. I half expected Jill to perform the obligatory bashing of the new girlfriend in an effort to make me feel better. But what was there to say? She seemed legitimately cool.
A few months into their courtship, I heard through the grapevine that my ex had done her dirty, revealing he was actually in a fuck boi phase. I will just say, as an aside, that finding out you’re dating a fuck boi when you previously had no idea you were dating a fuck boi is a uniquely awful flavor of disappointment. Instead of celebrating the relationship’s demise (schadenfreude isn’t really my bag anyway), I felt for her from afar.
Soon after, she started dating a guy who worked at the coffeeshop around the corner from me, and I started dating someone, too. Life carried on, years passed and, just last year after noticing she’d commented on a few of my outfit photos, I thought, why not follow her back? We started little chats on DM – about embracing covid style, a popular flower meadow in bloom, memes and choreography that resonated with us.
It felt nice, this kind of good-natured, full circle acquaintanceship. There can be a tipping point that allows one party to make a move toward real friendship, and for us it was after I posted a picture of Jill to my Story. Alain DMed, “Is she my doppelgänger or am I just imagining it?” I replied exactly how I felt: “!!!”
When we started to post about more serious life events, short quips became walls of text offering condolences and concern. After sharing she was going through a breakup, we decided to meet up for drinks. I was a little nervous, hoping we wouldn’t run into the dating app phenomenon where you text for weeks in anticipation of an in-person hang that ultimately fails to translate in real life.
I walked to the bar, listening to a comedy podcast and wondering what we’d talk about. She was sitting at a community table on the patio when I arrived. We ordered cocktails and sat across from each other in the waning summer sun. Small talk was crowded out by big feelings and as we launched into the real issues of our lives, and everything obscured by the distance of social media started to come into focus. We connected over being the same age at a similar stage, having multiple serious relationships, about writing and music, our moms and our gut issues.
As I told her why I broke up with our mutual ex, I was struck by the rarity of reaching depth so quickly. Discussing the ex with someone who understood firsthand was a strange new kind of closure. I was being let in to see a situation from a different side of the prism, and it felt safe and sweet.
When we long for friendship, I think we’re seeking this particular combination of openness and intimacy. Some breeds of casual friendship are about what we’ve been “up to” or binge watching or whatever ideology/routine/astrological fuckery we’re currently subscribing to. And those are all fine; those “shallow” conversations are important in a cumulative sense, like widening the well of connection rather than deepening it. But the act of confiding penetrates the well of the soul, spirit, or heart – whatever term you use for that vulnerable entity. Soft and dark, it requires excavating and illumination from the light of others, as we might not be able to reach some of its corners by wielding it on ourselves, alone.
It makes sense that we don’t have these stirring interactions with everyone. We build trust before confessing inherited family trauma or that lately we‘ve had trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Brené Brown famously says, “You share with the people who earn the right to hear your story.” Earning that right takes time; there are no shortcuts. Or are there?
I think that’s why I reported back with a mixture of pleasant surprise and trepidation when I told Jill how it went with Alain. I felt off kilter because we’d confided in one another without earning it in the traditional way. 12 years ago, Jill and I sat next to each other at an office every day, building from occasional jokes to daily coffee runs to tipsy, whiskey-soaked nights. It took a couple months before we exchanged stories about our respective anxieties and complex love lives. With Alain, it felt like we’d cheated, found some sort of loophole in the system. Aren’t there rules to this shit? Traditional narratives around the hours required to graduate to “real” friendship suggested I’d somehow pay for it.
But after a three hour chat, hugging before going our separate ways, hadn’t we earned some version of intimacy? Noticing one another for years, taking the brave step to open up, texting we’d arrived home safely and sending playlists. Wasn’t that evidence of care, if not a low hum of inexplicable connection, buzzing in the backend of social media’s predominate system of detachment.
We hung out again on a Friday night. I texted that I’d just parked and was hoofing it to the bar. She responded she, too, had finally found parking. “I’m hoofin’!” she said. For half hour, we waited in line for a trendy bar before jumping ship to the old standby across the street. We stood watching the live band, letting the 90s r&b covers wash over us, occasionally shouting in one another’s ears what band or genre it reminded us of. We ran into her cousin, and caught up with him before heading outside and talking for a couple hours.
The next day I texted her to see how her river excursion went. She’d been nervous about a day trip with her new guy’s friends, and she was happy it went smoothly. I was too.
This week’s friendship-themed thing is the most recent episode of Invisibilia,“A Friendly Ghost Story,” which launched their new “friendship season.” The opener is about the dissolution of friendships and one man’s mission to find out why his college friend ghosted him. Along with some gripping (and gloomy) twists and turns, this story had some fascinating insights from friendship experts.
“Is Anything Cool Anymore,” a brilliant analysis of cool culture by Safy-Hallan Farah for Vox. Farah lays out how the landscape has changed over the last fifteen years, from hipster culture’s taste making and gatekeeping to now, where there’s a limitless expanse of “cool,” thanks to the accessibility of the internet.
This TikTok by @friendinfashion challenging Instagram’s influence on personal style. ("You can’t click to buy style.”) It’s wild to me that consuming fashion content can both widen and narrow your point of view. The former because social media allows you to be exposed to style outside your region, the latter because the algorithm will just feed you more of something it thinks you like, which can ultimately morph you into one stylistic archetype or — horror of all horrors and the laughingstock of fashion — a clone.
The essay, “MFgrAy,” by Geri Modell, which I discovered via Roxane Gay’s Emerging Writers Series. This hit for me the concept is one I love across all mediums — the “late bloomer.”
It’s written from the perspective of a ~60 year old getting her MFA, and feeling like she’s never quite embraced by her younger peers. Even worse, she feels invisible. I absolutely loved this story for its honesty and sweet hilarity. I really hope the next frontier of cultural development is a shift around what age we celebrate certain milestones.
This Instagram roundup of “vintage finds in San Francisco.” I already knew about most of these purveyors of vintage home decor thanks to my own obsessive research (I love upcycled home decor stuff), but it was still nice to find a resource of all of them in one place.
Katie Daleabout’s Apartment Tour on Christttiiine’s Youtube channel, a sunny space I found to be very cute and charming, especially as a fellow one-room studio renter. Has some helpful Feng shui tips, too.
“Kitchen Dance Party,” a playlist by Companion Home I vibe to while washing dishes. Can’t go wrong with Latin grooves and upbeat soul jams.
The classic sneaker, Reebok Lifestyle Club C 85, which go with everything. My current sneaks are turfed up and I can see this Reebok pair looking better with age.
This week, I was quite literally filled up by Amy’s frozen burritos. Yikes, right? Usually I’m a total snob when it comes to frozen food (the expiration dates alone boggle the mind), but while nannying for my niece I discovered a (probably universal) appreciation for this particular snack when I snagged a bite of her bean-cheese-and-rice burrito. I’ve been on a lazy kick, so I bought like five of these gluten-free babies and munched them throughout the week. Consider my snobbiness nuked.
“This is Just Some Songs,” a recent episode of This American Life that made me nostalgic for mix tapes/CDs. I especially loved the “Just Be Good to Me” segment from the point of view of “the other woman,” which pays homage to the genre of 90s slow jams about longing for your man who already has a girl. Some fantastic audio storytelling by Nichole Perkins, and a full-on mood.
“On the Verge,” a Netflix dramedy about four midlife ladies dealing with love and work in L.A. I don’t think this series got much attention, nor do I think it’s for everyone, but it is, weirdly, for me. I’ve always had a soft spot for stories around “aging” women (emphasis on the air quotes) and this one was really fun and comforting.
“Something’s Gotta Give,” “Let Them All Talk,” “Under the Tuscan Sun,” “Waiting to Exhale”… there’s something about these movies’ attitude of, “Oh you thought I was done?!” for which I’m a total sucker.) Anyway, “On the Verge” is written and directed by Before Sunset goddess, Julie Delpy, another reason to watch.
Extra Thing: The discovery of the British Shorthair, a cat breed I find adorable for its huggable chunkiness. I’ve always liked my pets on the round side, and this wide-eyed, chipmunk-cheeked loaf is the epitome of CHONK. Of course, they’re hundreds of dollars, so I’m hoping to find a bargain kitty to adopt!
Extra Extra Thing: Speaking of chunky, I’m digging these Pêche boots, which look to me like dupes of the lusty stompers by Proenza Schuler pictured below.
See you next time for Part 4! In the meantime, you can catch me on Instagram.
Thanks for reading,
Love your writing. Love your depth.
Who doesn’t love a chonk?