Ok, so it's a lousy title for what I'm going to talk about, but it's the best I could come up with during the drive in to work. Over the weekend, I had a truly sobering thought - I have no friends. Now, this, unfortunately, wasn't necessarily a surprising thought, although I hadn't really pondered it in quite a while, and I was brought back to the idea through a somewhat circuitous route.
On Saturday, Anna and I went out with three other couples. For all three other couples, either they were both Russian (2 couples) or one of them was Russian (1 couple plus us). The other 6 people had planned to go out and we got invited along since we know all of them, more or less. They all live close by each other (while we're further distant) and they all have kids, some of whom go to school together. They had planned to go to a Russian restaurant.
Now, one critical component here (and I suspect it may be more critical than you might ever think) is that I am allergic to tobacco smoke. Yup - actually allergic. Never mind the "I don't smoke" folks. I'm an "I can't smoke" person. I can't breathe if there's even a whiff of cigarette smoke in the air. Needless to say, this makes it extraordinarily difficult to go out to a bar or anywhere else that people are likely to smoke.
Having been to a couple of Russian restaurants in the past, I can attest to the fact that they strongly tend toward the smoke-filled. [I'd even suspect that the Russians are trying hard to depopulate themselves through lung cancer...] Knowing this, I specifically asked (before we finalized plans) if the restaurant would be typical or if I'd be able to breathe. I was soundly reassured that the restaurant had a non-smoking section and, anyway, almost no one smokes there. Had I been thinking further ahead, I would have realized that, with my lungs, I was almost guaranteed to trigger a wave of smokers.
Sure enough, that's exactly what happened. The only table we could get was in the smoking section (because the non-smoking section was closed off for a private party). Initially, it wasn't that bad because there wasn't anyone else around. And then, as more people showed up, they seated a foursome immediately behind me and those folks proceeded to instantly light-up and start puffing away like chimneys.
After suffering by breathing through a handkerchief for a few minutes, I couldn't take it any more and had to go outside to get some fresh air. Shortly thereafter, Anna came out and we talked about the fact that I couldn't go inside. I'd be lying if I said that Anna was thrilled at this and, trying to be a nice guy, I offerred to sit in the car and read or take a nap while she stayed inside. Somehow, this was the worst possible thing I could have said, since I was soundly told off about how none of them could enjoy themselves, knowing I was stuck in the car. So, instead, we made our apologies (although I'm still not sure what we apologized about since I'd tried to make sure that this wouldn't be an issue) and left, Anna in a sullen silence and me wondering what else I could have done.
In the wake of that, during the ride home and since then, I've gotten to thinking about friends and come to the realization that I don't have any. Sure, I've got co-workers, I've got acquaintances and I've even got people on my instant messenger buddy list. But, for example, if I suddenly won the lottery or otherwise had something spectactular happen, I don't really have anyone to share it with aside from Anna and family (what little there is of that).
I've always been a bit of a loner, granted. I'm happier curled up with a book or a computer game than sitting and trying to make small talk. When I'm in a group, I'd much rather either be the center of attention or not there at all. [And I'm still trying to figure out how that part fits in to everything else.] I tend towards the shy and even don't feel real comfortable calling someone out of the blue. [When I've had to, like for work purposes, it's a matter of forcing myself to make the call.]
That collection of traits doesn't add up real well to having friends. And, as I think more and more about this, I'm less and less sure of what it actually means to have friends. I barely have enough to talk about with the people I know. I'm definitely not someone who can gab away with someone else on a daily basis - there just isn't enough stuff that happens to me and I don't have kids so I can't talk about what's happening with them.
That's another interesting realization - the idea that kids become a source of adult friends as well as a topic of conversation. Is that part of what it means to be a parent? The opening up of new possible friends through your kids and the parents of their friends as well as the ability to talk about your kids? I don't know, and it's definitely an intriguing (and somewhat sad) thought that I can't make it alone without having kids to help me make friends.
So what does it mean to have friends? I'm probably being overly melancholy about this, but it's a sobering, saddening and frightening thought to realize that I'm not even really sure what it means to have friends or be a friend. If you've got ideas on what it means to have a friend (and please don't point me to some sort of "Friendship is..." list), or have ideas about how an adult married couple without kids can meet friends, please let me know... I'm actually interested to hear.
Author: ben@tmk.com