MWF Seeking BFF (8 page)

I believe it. If I had no officemates to make me laugh or with whom to talk celebrity gossip when I need a break, I would have checked out long ago.

Most of the existing research focuses on how office friendships affect the productivity of the workplace, but I’m not worried about my department’s well-being. I’m worried about my own. Rath says people with three or more friends at work are 96 percent more likely to be satisfied with their lives. That’s no small thing. There’s little information out there about how to transition a work-friendship into a real-life one (only 20 percent of employees ever do), but I know plenty of women who’ve made it work. “Lost is the generation that didn’t mix business with pleasure,” one friend tells me when I ask for advice. “Once I realized I worked with girls who were my age and were also going out most weekends, we’d all go out, text each other, and ultimately meet up (a few drinks helps). You just have to be up for anything, anytime and put yourself out there.”

The more people I ask, the more I’m told the same thing. Start with something small or group-oriented, then jump in. “If you really enjoy the person’s company, you just have to go for it,” my college roommate says. “Be aggressive about it.”

But not too aggressive, I note. To elevate work-friends to the next level, text messaging seems to be the communication method of choice. Phone calls bring up all sorts of unnecessary small talk, plus the possibility of getting screened if she thinks you could be calling about work.

I’ve compiled a work-to-life friend playbook:

As for my big transition, the whole night is easy.

About halfway through dinner, talk turns to standard 9-to-5 gripes—late hours, frustrating colleagues, all that good stuff.

“No work talk,” I announce. There are nods all around and we return to a much more interesting topic: Men.

Tonight feels more like a gathering of old friends than a girl-date. We weigh in on the plans for Lynn’s wedding, analyze Ashley’s dating dilemmas, and enjoy a song-filled few hours in the theater. These aren’t off-the-clock BFFs (not yet, anyway) but strong weekday friendships are pretty fulfilling for eight (or, who are we kidding, nine or ten) hours a day, five days a week. And in my new hometown, this is my one and
only clique, the one group of girls where I fill a niche—I’m the goofy one!—and it feels like home.

What a difference a day makes.

The work outing was just the boost I needed. If the sub-par dates since Hannah and my visit with Chloe had me down, the fun with my coworkers has me reinvigorated. I start my second batch of invitations.

Looking back at my emails to Lauren the makeup artist and Heidi the ex-camper, it’s clear why they read my discomfort on the page. I’m not exactly used to writing women I hardly know and asking them to dinner. I worried they’d be turned off if I emailed out of the blue, so I buffered my solicitation with “I’ve lived in Chicago for about two years now, but sometimes I still feel new in town and am always eager to make a new friend.” It’s like asking a guy to dinner by saying, “I’m still single, but I’m always looking for a husband!”

For this next set, I’ve revised my tactic. Instead of taking the Needy Girlfriend approach, I’m going for Confident Fun Woman Open to New Things. I send out a round of six emails: to Jen, a fellow Northwesterner who I’ve run into at a few bars around town (she’s also best friends with Matt’s ex-girlfriend, so that should add an interesting twist); Sloane, the yogi and fellow camper who forgot me a month after we met; Margot, the bridal consultant who sold me my wedding dress a year ago; Hilary, a friend of a friend who I met my first weekend in Chicago; Becca, another second-degree connection, who I met six months ago when a mutual friend was in town; and Kim, with whom I made paella in a cooking class nine months ago. In all of these cases, we vowed to get drinks “one day”
and never did. So I remind them. “We talked about getting together, which I’m finally making good on.” That’s not desperate, that’s follow-through.

Within twenty-four hours, I hear back from everyone but Sloane with some variation of “So good to hear from you! How’s next week?” I’d be lying if I say I’m not a bit shocked. I figured some of them would take me for a charity case they didn’t have time for. But maybe everyone could use a new friend. Screw Dunbar.

(Sloane never writes back which, given our last encounter, I kind of expected.)

Hilary’s the first responder. No surprise. I actually messaged her via Facebook, which, given the frequency of her status updates, appears to be her preferred method of communication. She loves her some Facebook. We’ve met only once, at a bar-hopping outing organized by my college friend, but there was a friend request in my in-box first thing the next day. In the two years since, here’s what I’ve learned about her: She loves to work out. And post smiley faces in her status updates. And call every one she goes out with a “hot date.” And by “loves to work out,” I mean her status update every weekend is some version of “It’s 7
A.M.
and I’ve got a 17-miler under my belt! Now just a 4-mile swim to go. Super Saturday:)”

Her online profile doesn’t give me much hope for us.

“Why are you asking her out if you’re already not into her?” Matt asks. Damn him and his logic.

“I have to do fifty-two of these things! Do
you
know fifty-two people? I need to go out with everyone I know in this town and I can’t rule them out until after the date.”

“She sounds all wrong for you,” he says.

She does. But I need to keep an open mind. We set up a dinner for next Monday night.

As I suspected, finding a best friend really is like finding a man. At least in the beginning. There are the wardrobe changes before the first date (I go for nonpolarizing casual cool—jeans tucked into my new gray boots, a cozy sweater), the clumsy hellos and goodbyes, the “so nice to see you” next-day correspondence that only sometimes leads to a second invitation.

So far I’ve noticed only two real differences: We’re just friends, or trying to be, so we always split the bill. Also, women have no problem inviting other friends along. Since there are no sexual prospects, I guess girls figure they can get in a date with two for the price of one. It’s driving me batty. I don’t want a chaperone.

This has happened to me twice now. When Heidi invited Michelle to dinner, I felt like I was on an audition. They were already best friends, so with every glance that passed between them, I wondered,
Do they think I’m funny? Will they let me in? Did I just make an ass of myself?
Michelle drove Heidi to dinner, so when they got back in the car I was sure they were mocking my desperation. The worst part was that Heidi and I hit it off, but there was something amiss between Michelle and me. We weren’t in sync. Had Heidi and I met alone as I had intended, we could be exchanging witty banter this very minute. Instead I think our future, or lack thereof, is sealed. Michelle and Heidi, best friends forever. Is there a word for the friendship version of cock-blocking? There should be.

Now Hilary’s done the same thing. On Sunday, she sends me an email to firm up plans and mentions that she invited her “really awesome friend Claire, too. She is one of the nicest people on earth.” What are these people doing to me? Don’t they realize I am looking for a best friend here? If the chances
of wooing one girl are slim, getting two at once feels impossible. It’s almost enough to make me wish this
were
real dating. No one would stand for a first-date threesome.

The good news is that as pessimistic as I am about Hilary, I’m equally as hopeful about my budding friendship with Hannah, date number one. She’s like my wedding dress. The first gown I tried on was perfect, but I slipped on thirty more to be safe and each beaded monstrosity made me more confident in the tulle number I wore down the aisle. Since our first meeting we’ve only seen each other once, at book club, but we’ve been trying to set up a second date for weeks. The problem is that she’s studying for the Bar exam, which pretty much guarantees a person won’t see the light of day for at least a month. But in our emails back and forth about schedules, we’ve chatted about books and weddings and boys. We’re pen pals, taking it slow.

FRIEND-DATE 7.
When I arrive at English, the upscale pub Hilary chose for dinner, she’s waiting for me at the bar. She’s blond, with the tiny body you’d expect of someone who runs seventeen miles before 7
A.M.
on a Saturday.

“Hey hottie,” she says.

We sip our cocktails—me a pinot grigio, Hilary a vodka tonic—as we wait for Claire.

“The last time we met we were at this same bar,” I say. It had been a fun, and funny, evening. Fun because it was my first girls night in Chicago, funny because it was July and the air conditioner was broken at the bar where we started the festivities. Imagine five 25-year-olds trying to look sophisticated while sporting dresses covered in sweat stains. Like I said, funny.

“That was probably the last weekend I went out on the town,” Hilary says. “I’m usually in bed by ten.”

“Me too! I’m more of a homebody,” I say. “Definitely.”

This is good. Connection.

When Claire shows up we grab a table. Suddenly, before I have a chance to overanalyze the situation, something crazy happens. Hilary and I click. It starts with Hilary telling Claire how we connected—my college roommate used to live across the street from her—which leads to a gossip fest about another mutual friend and her husband, who neither of us particularly likes. The conversation reminds me of a study that found people are more likely to connect over a common dislike of someone than a common fondness for him. It’s called the negativity bond, and it’s hard at work here. There’s also a girl who goes to Hilary’s gym who we both know and find completely objectionable. That helps. Suddenly we’re running our mouths about local restaurants, East Coast upbringings, the fact that she dated a contestant from
Survivor.

“Um, you’re kidding.
Survivor
is my favorite show,” I say. “Jeff Probst is my celebrity crush.”

“Oh jeez. You should have dated this guy. I’ve never seen the show in my life.”

It turns out Hilary is training to qualify for the 2016 Olympic trials, which makes the status updates more forgivable. That she’s the first to mock her own obsessive posting earns her even more points. I can accept the updates if, when we are eventually BFFs, I’m allowed to tease her about them.

Claire’s nice, too. I don’t think we’ll establish an independent friendship just yet (and every time she speaks to me she grabs my arm, which makes me want to scream something about personal space), but she’s plenty friendly and, for now, that’s good enough.

“You’re a reader, right? I think I remember that from the last time we met,” Hilary says to me.

“Yup. Or, at least, I like to think I am.”

“You should totally join our book club,” she says.

I have to decline—I draw the line at two—but it leads to a great discussion about what we’ve read (
The Spellman Files
) and what we’ve loved (
The Help
). From there, we move on to movies and television.

This is what I meant! TV, books, organic conversation. Finally.

“You ladies want to take a shot with us?” There are three men at the bar shouting over to our table.