how to make a new friend when you’re five years old (option one):
- say, “hello.”
- wait for the other five-year-old to say “hello” back.
- ask, “wanna be friends?”
- wait for the other five-year-old to say, “okay.”
- say, “hello.”
- wait for the other five-year-old to say “hello” back.
- ask, “wanna play dinosaurs?”
- wait for the other five-year-old to say, “okay.”
how to make a new friend when you’re an adult:
- watch the other person and how s/he behaves in a group.
- wait.
- dance around in your mind about whether you need a new friend because you already have enough friends for god’s sake.
- have a good conversation with the potential new friend but don’t follow up.
- forget how to suggest fun things and/or decide that nothing you do is fun.
- get scared that the new friend doesn’t want to be friends.
- get busy.
- try to act cool and aloof around potential new friend.
- hold back your real personality until you judge that potential new friend can take it.
- judge potential new friend as too snobby/smart/busy/pretty/unattractive/granola/corporate/soft-spoken to be your friend.
- take potential new friend’s busy schedule as an indication that s/he thinks you’re horrible and never wants to see you again.
- somehow, against all odds, hang out with potential new friend.
ah, to be five years old again. in the world of adult new-friend-making, it seems we have to be subtle, fend off awkwardness, avoid showing our hand in case the other person doesn’t like us. sigh.
I keep suggesting to Charlie that he should say "hello" back... I think he's already playing the adult friend-making game.
ReplyDeleteCheryl Chamblee, you are "lovely" and wise and I felt something akin to the spiritual quickening I experience in a dark theatre just before the curtain rises when my sister texts to tell me you are "lovely" and wise, reminds me (alone and feeling sorry myself under the harsh fluorescents of Bed Bath and Beyond) to READ YOUR BLOG.
ReplyDeleteI do, and suddenly I'm with you at Elmo's (I'm a forgotten fry in between the cushions of your favorite booth so jealous of the talking humans keeping your company I sweat off all my salt).
I would kill for a lie down on your kitchen floor...
The day goes on, fluffed by the North Carolina breezy warmth of your friendship: physical memory of wind through the passenger side window of a blue pickup smelling of dry grass and barbecue, of sweat-soaked skin in a field of sunflowers.
So happy I/you said yes.