I made a friend today.
Not a work contact.
Not someone who pretended to be my friend because she thought it was cool that I am a writer and maybe I would put her in one of my stories.
Not someone who was nice because she wanted to sell me something.
Not someone who I only talked to because her kids were the same age as mine.
Just a seemingly like-minded, but not too-like-minded, sister-in-arms.
I went through a phase in college when I liked to quote E. M. Forster at people. “Only connect,” I would say, as if that, in itself, was explanation enough. As though I could bridge the gap between me and folks taking classes like Organic Chemistry and Math Without Numbers through semi-literate pretentiousness.
But I meant it.
And I mean it again now.
Cut it with the shallowness.
I grow tired of walking out of meetings feeling like I don’t know people any better than I did when I walked in.
I hate small talk: the weather, if my kid plays soccer, if that top is available in blue.
I want to know people. I want to argue, and not worry much about feelings being hurt. I want friends who can hold their own. I want to laugh and daydream more. And solve the world’s problems over tea.
I sound lonely, and a little desperate. I have friends. Really, I do. Oodles, actually. Awesome soul sisters the world over with whom I have wept, prayed, and belly-laughed. But they are there and I am now here. I am new to this town. I’ve met tons of nice people. Good people. Solid, friendly people. But I haven’t found my posse yet. I’m still looking’ for my crew.
So this new friend business feels fun. A little like a high school crush. Not in a creepy stalker way. Just, like in an I-hope-she-will-sit-by-me-on-the-bleachers-during-the-kids’-practice sort of way. Because I enjoyed talking. And I might even wear my good yoga pants to impress her, instead of the ones with the hole in the crotch like I wore last time. Even though the sense I got of her was that she is totally the kind of person who would laugh about the hole in the crotch yoga pants and show me the hole in her own mismatched socks.
Is it too soon to make her a mix tape?