Kelly Stout has good, close friends. But she realized that she was struggling to find someone among the 8 million citizens of New York City willing to meet her for a beer on a Tuesday, someone who was up for a little low-key spontaneity. So, she gave herself a mission: to make a friend in one month.
First, I’d have to define “friend” for our purposes. Deceptively tough. Would meeting for one coffee do the trick? Surely not. What about four? What if we did something a little more involved, like seeing a concert or taking a cooking class? We’d have to develop some recurring jokes, memories, shared enemies for it to count. Friendship requires a knowledge base, too: Can you really declare yourself friends with someone if you don’t know their brother’s name or what their girlfriend does for a living? How much work should it take? I wound myself up trying to make a discursive distinction between that which makes someone a friend and that which makes someone a good friend before the damn project had even started. I had to cut my losses. I just needed someone I really—I mean, really—enjoyed hanging out with, someone whose problems I could take on as my own, someone who would take on mine as well.
Friends weren’t just going to happen to me. Babies may have been partly to blame for the disappearance of my old friends, but perhaps they could also be a solution. When we first had our baby, people went out of their way to tell us how easy it would be to make friends now that we had a kid. So I signed my daughter up for a parent-and-me swim class that met every Saturday morning at a high school. We arrived early so I could scope out the friend potential. She sat on my hip in her towel with a dinosaur tail and sucked her thumb. I felt the same way.
What I really wanted was something that, for some reason, despite its near-universal popularity, we’ve constructed society to make nearly impossible: hanging out casually when the mood strikes, with a bunch of people who know us deeply and love us anyway.
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