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Authors: Rachel Bertsche
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colleagues, all that good stuff.
“No work talk,” I announce. There are nods all around and we return to a much more interesting topic: Men.
Tonight feels more like a gathering of old friends than a girl-date. We weigh in on the plans for Lynn’s wedding, analyze Ashley’s dating dilemmas, and enjoy a song-filled few hours in the theater. These aren’t off-the-clock BFFs (not yet, anyway) but strong weekday friendships are pretty fulfilling for eight (or, who are we kidding, nine or ten) hours a day, five days a week. And in my new hometown, this is my one andonly clique, the one group of girls where I fill a niche—I’m the goofy one!—and it feels like home.
What a difference a day makes.
The work outing was just the boost I needed. If the sub-par dates since Hannah and my visit with Chloe had me down, the fun with my coworkers has me reinvigorated. I start my second batch of invitations.
Looking back at my emails to Lauren the makeup artist and Heidi the ex-camper, it’s clear why they read my discomfort on the page. I’m not exactly used to writing women I hardly know and asking them to dinner. I worried they’d be turned off if I emailed out of the blue, so I buffered my solicitation with “I’ve lived in Chicago for about two years now, but sometimes I still feel new in town and am always eager to make a new friend.” It’s like asking a guy to dinner by saying, “I’m still single, but I’m always looking for a husband!”
For this next set, I’ve revised my tactic. Instead of taking the Needy Girlfriend approach, I’m going for Confident Fun Woman Open to New Things. I send out a round of six emails: to Jen, a fellow Northwesterner who I’ve run into at a few bars around town (she’s also best friends with Matt’s ex-girlfriend, so that should add an interesting twist); Sloane, the yogi and fellow camper who forgot me a month after we met; Margot, the bridal consultant who sold me my wedding dress a year ago; Hilary, a friend of a friend who I met my first weekend in Chicago; Becca, another second-degree connection, who I met six months ago when a mutual friend was in town; and Kim, with whom I made paella in a cooking class nine months ago. In all of these cases, we vowed to get drinks “one day”and never did. So I remind them. “We talked about getting together, which I’m finally making good on.” That’s not desperate, that’s follow-through.
Within twenty-four hours, I hear back from everyone but Sloane with some variation of “So good to hear from you! How’s next week?” I’d be lying if I say I’m not a bit shocked. I figured some of them would take me for a charity case they didn’t have time for. But maybe everyone could use a new friend. Screw Dunbar.
(Sloane never writes back which, given our last encounter, I kind of expected.)
Hilary’s the first responder. No surprise. I actually messaged her via Facebook, which, given the frequency of her status updates, appears to be her preferred method of communication. She loves her some Facebook. We’ve met only once, at a bar-hopping outing organized by my college friend, but there was a friend request in my in-box first thing the next day. In the two years since, here’s what I’ve learned about her: She loves to work out. And post smiley faces in her status updates. And call every one she goes out with a “hot date.” And by “loves to work out,” I mean her status update every weekend is some version of “It’s 7 A.M. and I’ve got a 17-miler under my belt! Now just a 4-mile swim to go. Super Saturday:)”
Her online profile doesn’t give me much hope for us.
“Why are you asking her out if you’re already not into her?” Matt asks. Damn him and his logic.
“I have to do fifty-two of these things! Do
you
know fifty-two people? I need to go out with everyone I know in this town and I can’t rule them out until after the date.”
“She sounds all wrong for you,” he says.
She does. But I need
“No work talk,” I announce. There are nods all around and we return to a much more interesting topic: Men.
Tonight feels more like a gathering of old friends than a girl-date. We weigh in on the plans for Lynn’s wedding, analyze Ashley’s dating dilemmas, and enjoy a song-filled few hours in the theater. These aren’t off-the-clock BFFs (not yet, anyway) but strong weekday friendships are pretty fulfilling for eight (or, who are we kidding, nine or ten) hours a day, five days a week. And in my new hometown, this is my one andonly clique, the one group of girls where I fill a niche—I’m the goofy one!—and it feels like home.
What a difference a day makes.
The work outing was just the boost I needed. If the sub-par dates since Hannah and my visit with Chloe had me down, the fun with my coworkers has me reinvigorated. I start my second batch of invitations.
Looking back at my emails to Lauren the makeup artist and Heidi the ex-camper, it’s clear why they read my discomfort on the page. I’m not exactly used to writing women I hardly know and asking them to dinner. I worried they’d be turned off if I emailed out of the blue, so I buffered my solicitation with “I’ve lived in Chicago for about two years now, but sometimes I still feel new in town and am always eager to make a new friend.” It’s like asking a guy to dinner by saying, “I’m still single, but I’m always looking for a husband!”
For this next set, I’ve revised my tactic. Instead of taking the Needy Girlfriend approach, I’m going for Confident Fun Woman Open to New Things. I send out a round of six emails: to Jen, a fellow Northwesterner who I’ve run into at a few bars around town (she’s also best friends with Matt’s ex-girlfriend, so that should add an interesting twist); Sloane, the yogi and fellow camper who forgot me a month after we met; Margot, the bridal consultant who sold me my wedding dress a year ago; Hilary, a friend of a friend who I met my first weekend in Chicago; Becca, another second-degree connection, who I met six months ago when a mutual friend was in town; and Kim, with whom I made paella in a cooking class nine months ago. In all of these cases, we vowed to get drinks “one day”and never did. So I remind them. “We talked about getting together, which I’m finally making good on.” That’s not desperate, that’s follow-through.
Within twenty-four hours, I hear back from everyone but Sloane with some variation of “So good to hear from you! How’s next week?” I’d be lying if I say I’m not a bit shocked. I figured some of them would take me for a charity case they didn’t have time for. But maybe everyone could use a new friend. Screw Dunbar.
(Sloane never writes back which, given our last encounter, I kind of expected.)
Hilary’s the first responder. No surprise. I actually messaged her via Facebook, which, given the frequency of her status updates, appears to be her preferred method of communication. She loves her some Facebook. We’ve met only once, at a bar-hopping outing organized by my college friend, but there was a friend request in my in-box first thing the next day. In the two years since, here’s what I’ve learned about her: She loves to work out. And post smiley faces in her status updates. And call every one she goes out with a “hot date.” And by “loves to work out,” I mean her status update every weekend is some version of “It’s 7 A.M. and I’ve got a 17-miler under my belt! Now just a 4-mile swim to go. Super Saturday:)”
Her online profile doesn’t give me much hope for us.
“Why are you asking her out if you’re already not into her?” Matt asks. Damn him and his logic.
“I have to do fifty-two of these things! Do
you
know fifty-two people? I need to go out with everyone I know in this town and I can’t rule them out until after the date.”
“She sounds all wrong for you,” he says.
She does. But I need
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