T-shirt look fresh. She pulls off berets and sequined blazers and wears them so easily that I wonder, “Why haven’t I spent a hundred and fifty dollars on a sequined blazer?” And then I do. And then it sits in my closet. And then I give it to Goodwill, tag still attached. Where does one even find the occasion to wear a sequined blazer? But, anyway.
Chloe is Sara’s best friend from college and when we both lived in New York, we became friends ourselves. She’s smart and silly and whenever she visits we stay up late chatting on the couch like 12-year-olds at a slumber party. Chloe is in business school in Philadelphia now, and she came to Chicago Thursdaynight for a job interview. The rest of the weekend, she’s staying with me.
I’m elated that Chloe might move here but I’m not planning our life together just yet. She’s teased me like this before. About a year and a half ago Chloe almost enrolled in Northwestern’s business school. I was skipping around town thinking my friendship problems had been solved, picturing our Sunday brunches, when she called to tell me she’d chosen Penn. I can tell Chicago’s a second choice for her this time, too, so I try not to get my hopes up.
But still, my hopes are a little up.
“Take a breath,” Matt tells me on our way to dinner. “You two have all night together.”
Chloe and I are talking so fast I’m not sure either of us can hear the other, let alone break for air. She’s telling me about business school dances and yesterday’s interview and I’m yapping about our 8-month-old nephew and plans for a one-year-delayed honeymoon. I’m a giddy schoolgirl, in a car with Matt
and
a close friend. I have it all! It feels as if, finally, I can stop trying. I’m talking about anything and everything—work, family,
Top Chef
—without a filter. It’s so natural and I feel so … light. It’s as if I was totally unaware I’d been lugging around this burden until it was lifted. The weight, I guess, was the heavy load of loneliness, though I loathe that word. It reminds me of those “Depression Hurts” commercials, the black-and-white ones where everyone is gazing out windows. People are always doing that in movies, staring out windows to signify their hardships. I’ve tried a few times, but it was pretty boring. I’d vote couch for a good bout of the blues. But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m
not
depressed, and to even think the word “lonely” sounds so … sad.
The psychological definition of loneliness is “perceived social isolation.” As John Cacioppo told me, “Loneliness isn’t being alone, it’s feeling alone.” If we’re going strictly by the book then I guess I am, in fact, lonely. I’m certainly not alone—aside from Matt, I’m surrounded by coworkers and family, and the two of us do have plenty of friends. When we throw a party, we pack the house. But obviously I don’t feel enough of a meaningful connection with any of them, or I wouldn’t have launched this yearlong search.
There’s also what social scientists call “social comparison” working against me. The gist of the theory is that we evaluate our own circumstances by comparing them with others. It’s why researchers say loneliness peaks during the holidays—inundated with images of Christmas parties and loved ones gathered around the tree, our own small dinner party feels not good enough. Because I watch so much TV, and my favorite shows are the likes of
Friends, How I Met Your Mother, Sex and the City
, and
Entourage
, I’m socially comparing myself all year long. If those are the models I live by, I should have three or four BFFs who I meet for coffee or beers or cosmos every single day, sometimes twice.
But now that Chloe’s here, I’m feeling super-socially connected. We spend Sunday laughing, eating, and trying on clothes. She’s my favorite shopping buddy because she buys with abandon and encourages me to do the same. Probably Matt’s worst
Chloe is Sara’s best friend from college and when we both lived in New York, we became friends ourselves. She’s smart and silly and whenever she visits we stay up late chatting on the couch like 12-year-olds at a slumber party. Chloe is in business school in Philadelphia now, and she came to Chicago Thursdaynight for a job interview. The rest of the weekend, she’s staying with me.
I’m elated that Chloe might move here but I’m not planning our life together just yet. She’s teased me like this before. About a year and a half ago Chloe almost enrolled in Northwestern’s business school. I was skipping around town thinking my friendship problems had been solved, picturing our Sunday brunches, when she called to tell me she’d chosen Penn. I can tell Chicago’s a second choice for her this time, too, so I try not to get my hopes up.
But still, my hopes are a little up.
“Take a breath,” Matt tells me on our way to dinner. “You two have all night together.”
Chloe and I are talking so fast I’m not sure either of us can hear the other, let alone break for air. She’s telling me about business school dances and yesterday’s interview and I’m yapping about our 8-month-old nephew and plans for a one-year-delayed honeymoon. I’m a giddy schoolgirl, in a car with Matt
and
a close friend. I have it all! It feels as if, finally, I can stop trying. I’m talking about anything and everything—work, family,
Top Chef
—without a filter. It’s so natural and I feel so … light. It’s as if I was totally unaware I’d been lugging around this burden until it was lifted. The weight, I guess, was the heavy load of loneliness, though I loathe that word. It reminds me of those “Depression Hurts” commercials, the black-and-white ones where everyone is gazing out windows. People are always doing that in movies, staring out windows to signify their hardships. I’ve tried a few times, but it was pretty boring. I’d vote couch for a good bout of the blues. But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m
not
depressed, and to even think the word “lonely” sounds so … sad.
The psychological definition of loneliness is “perceived social isolation.” As John Cacioppo told me, “Loneliness isn’t being alone, it’s feeling alone.” If we’re going strictly by the book then I guess I am, in fact, lonely. I’m certainly not alone—aside from Matt, I’m surrounded by coworkers and family, and the two of us do have plenty of friends. When we throw a party, we pack the house. But obviously I don’t feel enough of a meaningful connection with any of them, or I wouldn’t have launched this yearlong search.
There’s also what social scientists call “social comparison” working against me. The gist of the theory is that we evaluate our own circumstances by comparing them with others. It’s why researchers say loneliness peaks during the holidays—inundated with images of Christmas parties and loved ones gathered around the tree, our own small dinner party feels not good enough. Because I watch so much TV, and my favorite shows are the likes of
Friends, How I Met Your Mother, Sex and the City
, and
Entourage
, I’m socially comparing myself all year long. If those are the models I live by, I should have three or four BFFs who I meet for coffee or beers or cosmos every single day, sometimes twice.
But now that Chloe’s here, I’m feeling super-socially connected. We spend Sunday laughing, eating, and trying on clothes. She’s my favorite shopping buddy because she buys with abandon and encourages me to do the same. Probably Matt’s worst
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