Coffee Dates
“I am not a good friend. I have never been capable of or willing to commit to the maintenance that the rules of friendship dictate. I cannot remember birthdays. I do not want to meet for coffee. I will not host the baby shower. I won’t text back because it’s an eternal game of Ping-Pong, the texting. It never ends. I inevitably disappoint friends, so after enough of that, I decided I would stop trying. I don’t want to live in constant debt. This is okay with me. I have a sister and children and a dog. One cannot have it all. ”
The first time I read the above, I cried. And let me pause here to note that crying is not a default reaction for me. I’m more of a, “Boy oh boy, is my journal ever going to hear about this one!” kind of emoter.
But that passage unexpectedly skewered a dark, hidden, ashamed corner of my soul. Glennon is obviously describing herself, but she could have been describing me down to the letter (minus the having children part, and I’m actually rather good at remembering birthdays, because I take two seconds to put them into my calendar like a mother-effing adult.)
But back to feeling gutted by this passage from Glennon. This version of me that I recognized in her description? It’s not one that I celebrated, let up to the surface, or even acknowledged. It was more filed away under the “Deep Character Flaws To Hopefully Fix Someday” recess of my psyche.
This is perhaps entirely ego-centric, but it had never occurred to me that, I’m not the only one. I am not the only woman missing this friendship chip. Or at least failing at the way we’ve been told friendship is supposed to look.
I was in my late 30s when I read Untamed, which means I’d spent 3+ decades hating myself for the very truth Glennon states with such confidence in another, related passage of the book:
“I am a sensitive, introverted woman, which means that I love humanity but actual human beings are tricky for me. I love people but not in person. For example, I would die for you but not, like...meet you for coffee. I became a writer so I could stay at home alone in my pajamas, reading and writing about the importance of human connection and community.”
Again, she it felt like she was reaching into the most shameful parts of me, and speaking the hidden truths:
“I love people, but not in person.”
Same. Same.
There are exceptions, of course. My husband and I live and work in a small Manhattan apartment. And though we spend all-day, every-day together, I never feel drained in his presence. Perhaps because the most beautiful partnerships make room for long stretches of completely loving silence.
And I don’t never like seeing other human beings. I may always opt for self-checkout at Food Emporium, but I also never fail to make eye contact with the employee overseeing the whole impersonal mess and say thank you, just to acknowledge their humanity, and the fact that they’re probably two minutes away from dealing with a customer whose irate over having to pay for a bag when they just spent $3.99 on an underripe avocado.
But like Glennon, I am not a good friend or family member in the classic sense. Glennon’s repeated references to “meeting for coffee” hit especially close to home, because a coffee date” is my actual nightmare. Even when it’s proposed by someone I love dearly.
Because that’s another thing I know about myself: I do love dearly. Deeply.
It just doesn’t look the way it’s “supposed to.” To repurpose Glennon’s phrasing, I don’t always love best in person.
You won’t find my most treasured experiences or connections on my Calendars app or Resy/Opentable history, because that’s rarely where they happen.
They come in the form of long weekly email exchanges with my friend Jen. These emails take me hours to write, and I cherish every minute of the process. When I get her equally long emails in response, I feel closer to her than anyone.
Or in the way my friend Laura and I will go months without any kind of interaction, and then drop in with out-of-the-blue text message that skips right over any sort of “what’s new with you” nonsense and drops right into something raw and weird.
Or a recent extended text message exchange with my husband’s cousin that somehow went deeper than any in-person conversation I’ve had over shared appetizers in more than a decade.
It’s email or message I write someone after we’ve hung out in person, because I’ve had the time my weird brain needs to process all the things that were said aloud, so that I can respond in writing. Or, it’s putting a stamp on a handwritten thank you note or letter just to say hi, thinking of you, here’s some mail.
Those are when I feel connected. Truly connected.
We’re told that the phone calls, the coffee dates, the happy hours, the dinner table, the family gathering are what matter, but that’s simply not true for me. I show up for other people in that way out of guilt and obligation, but I am never wholly present, never fully me.
It’s taken me decades to figure this out, but I think I was put on this earth to write.
Stories, ideas, emails, text messages, letters, blog posts, captions.
Writing is my purpose, my higher calling. It’s what I do better than anything else, and though it’s taken me awhile to really get this: it’s how I connect.
I’m not saying that everyone is like this, and I’m not saying my way is better. But I think I’m done pretending face-to-face is better for everyone.
When I first read Untamed several years ago, my biggest take away was the relief that I wasn’t alone. That I wasn’t the only “bad friend.”
But I recently revisited the book, and this time, something new jumped out at me.
Not just that Glennon acknowledges this about herself, not just that she’s brave enough to put them in writing for the world to see and judge, but that she takes it a step further:
This is okay with me.
This is okay with me.
It’s a scenario I’ve never let myself even contemplate.
To be okay with ... me.
No wonder I cried.
