the theater quite purposefully, as if the reason we’re not speaking isn’t because we have nothing to say, but because we absolutely need to catch the eye of the cute guy in the third row or the texting girl two seats back. Finally, the lights start to dim. Thank God.
Later, as we part, there’s an awkward hug and a “We should do this again sometime” that clearly means we probably won’t.
Two days later I get a text. “Did you find out about David?” I did, and even though I gave him a glowing description—Becca may not be right for me but she’s very much his type—and Matt verified her good looks, he’s not interested.
“I looked her up on Facebook,” he emails me. “I’ve dated too many of her friends.”
Oy. This is why I don’t set people up. I text her that it appears he’s dating someone—that seems a better excuse—but will keep her posted if anything changes. It’s clear her new-relationship energy is dedicated to the romantic kind. Totally understandable. But given that she has a plethora of childhood friends in Chicago and I’m saving the third follow-up for the most promising contenders, I doubt I’ll reach out again and I don’t expect to hear from her. Oh well.
FRIEND-DATE 12. On Thursday I have a blind friend-date that Callie set up. My mystery woman is named Muffy, and all I’ve been told is that she’s really pretty and went to Yale. Given the name and background, I’m picturing someone with Upper East Side glamour. Pearl earrings, Tory Burch flats, straight-leg ankle-length pants. When I arrive at the bistro she suggested, I tell the host I’m meeting someone.
“Who?”
“Um, Muffy?” I feel silly saying her name aloud.
“Oh, sure, Muffy’s here all the time.” Wow, this is going to be even more
Gossip Girl
-y than I thought. She’s a regular! The whole thing feels very un-Midwestern. He seats me at the bar, and when Muffy arrives, she’s as glamorous as I imagined. She’s approximately eight feet tall, with short bobbed hair, and is wearing some sort of fur stole. I’m feeling very plain.
“Should we get a table?” I ask.
“I don’t think they let you sit at tables if you’re only getting drinks.” Oh. I guess we’re only getting drinks. I try sending Matt telepathic messages to not eat dinner without me.
Another date, another nice time. We have a drink—I get a white wine, she gets her “usual,” a dirty martini with blue-cheese-stuffedolives—and dish our backstories. She’s from Little Rock, but her husband is from Chicago so they moved here six months ago. She lived in New York after college, then in London for a year working for Burberry. Now that she’s in Chicago, she’s trying to figure out what the next career move will be. In the meantime she bides her time serving on women’s auxiliary boards all over Chicago.
Callie tells me later that Muffy wore a huge sun hat to her wedding. Of course she did.
Twelve dates in, I still haven’t put my finger on exactly what makes one date click and not another. Joseph Epstein wrote that friendship is “affection, variously based on common interests, a common past, common values, and, alas, sometimes common enemies.” I’ve read that each common interest between potential friends boosts the chances of a lasting relationship, and also increases an individual’s life satisfaction by 2 percent. Commonalities certainly seem important, but I can find something in common with everyone I’ve met. A common upbringing or religion, a shared love of books, similar politics, a mutual friend. There’s got to be a reason why I never noticed the time during my three-and-a-half-hour dinner with Margot, but checked my watch with Muffy, despite having a nice enough evening. Certainly the ease of conversation is a big factor, as is synergy. John Cacioppo told me that “the relationships that seem to fuel people are synergistic, they produce more than the sum of the parts. You’re investing in a way that
Later, as we part, there’s an awkward hug and a “We should do this again sometime” that clearly means we probably won’t.
Two days later I get a text. “Did you find out about David?” I did, and even though I gave him a glowing description—Becca may not be right for me but she’s very much his type—and Matt verified her good looks, he’s not interested.
“I looked her up on Facebook,” he emails me. “I’ve dated too many of her friends.”
Oy. This is why I don’t set people up. I text her that it appears he’s dating someone—that seems a better excuse—but will keep her posted if anything changes. It’s clear her new-relationship energy is dedicated to the romantic kind. Totally understandable. But given that she has a plethora of childhood friends in Chicago and I’m saving the third follow-up for the most promising contenders, I doubt I’ll reach out again and I don’t expect to hear from her. Oh well.
FRIEND-DATE 12. On Thursday I have a blind friend-date that Callie set up. My mystery woman is named Muffy, and all I’ve been told is that she’s really pretty and went to Yale. Given the name and background, I’m picturing someone with Upper East Side glamour. Pearl earrings, Tory Burch flats, straight-leg ankle-length pants. When I arrive at the bistro she suggested, I tell the host I’m meeting someone.
“Who?”
“Um, Muffy?” I feel silly saying her name aloud.
“Oh, sure, Muffy’s here all the time.” Wow, this is going to be even more
Gossip Girl
-y than I thought. She’s a regular! The whole thing feels very un-Midwestern. He seats me at the bar, and when Muffy arrives, she’s as glamorous as I imagined. She’s approximately eight feet tall, with short bobbed hair, and is wearing some sort of fur stole. I’m feeling very plain.
“Should we get a table?” I ask.
“I don’t think they let you sit at tables if you’re only getting drinks.” Oh. I guess we’re only getting drinks. I try sending Matt telepathic messages to not eat dinner without me.
Another date, another nice time. We have a drink—I get a white wine, she gets her “usual,” a dirty martini with blue-cheese-stuffedolives—and dish our backstories. She’s from Little Rock, but her husband is from Chicago so they moved here six months ago. She lived in New York after college, then in London for a year working for Burberry. Now that she’s in Chicago, she’s trying to figure out what the next career move will be. In the meantime she bides her time serving on women’s auxiliary boards all over Chicago.
Callie tells me later that Muffy wore a huge sun hat to her wedding. Of course she did.
Twelve dates in, I still haven’t put my finger on exactly what makes one date click and not another. Joseph Epstein wrote that friendship is “affection, variously based on common interests, a common past, common values, and, alas, sometimes common enemies.” I’ve read that each common interest between potential friends boosts the chances of a lasting relationship, and also increases an individual’s life satisfaction by 2 percent. Commonalities certainly seem important, but I can find something in common with everyone I’ve met. A common upbringing or religion, a shared love of books, similar politics, a mutual friend. There’s got to be a reason why I never noticed the time during my three-and-a-half-hour dinner with Margot, but checked my watch with Muffy, despite having a nice enough evening. Certainly the ease of conversation is a big factor, as is synergy. John Cacioppo told me that “the relationships that seem to fuel people are synergistic, they produce more than the sum of the parts. You’re investing in a way that
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