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I met Nathalie at the gym. We bonded over her “God is good” shirt and quickly shared stories of how life had dealt us both some crappy cards, but prayer got us through. Nathalie was tall and beautiful, and she quite literally lit up every room she walked into. People, including me, loved to be around her.
Ours started as a gym-only friendship. We would chat for a few minutes before and after our boxing class. I welcomed the conversation and enjoyed the companionship.
Then, it all changed with three dreaded words: “What’s your number?” She wanted to shoot me a text over the weekend. My thoughts raced: What? Why? What is happening over the weekend that we need to text about? Noooooooo, Nathalie, please don’t ruin this good thing we have going!
I didn’t want to give her my number. I wasn’t looking for a texting buddy or coffee partner. And I most definitely was not looking for someone to make gym plans with either. I liked coming and going as I pleased. I wanted to politely tell Nathalie, “Oh, sorry, but I don’t give my number out.” I thought about saying those words, but I knew they would be perceived as rude. And being rude to my new gym friend would make coming to the gym really complicated and awkward. I felt trapped — so I caved.
“Sounds great!” I said, giving her my number and smiling through my resentment. “Talk to you this weekend.”
I tried with Nathalie. I really did. I wanted to be the type of woman who made friends and liked it. The kind of woman who was selfless and put others first, who felt energized by coffee dates and group texts and girls’ nights out. So I pretended to be her.
“I am having a book club on Tuesday night, you should come,” Nathalie said in a post-gym conversation. I had no plans that night and although my instinct was to scream “No!” and run the other way, I thought of the woman I wanted to be. “That sounds great,” I said, “Count me in.”
But it didn’t sound great. Not even good. It sounded awful. It was only Wednesday, and I already knew where I wanted to be next Tuesday. It was in my bed with Netflix and a pint of gelato in my hands.
I spent the next five days overcome with dread thinking about the plans I never should have made. I wrestled with thoughts of guilt and self-deprecation. Why didn’t I like having friends? What is wrong with me? The resentment was eating me alive. I had said yes to Nathalie, but I meant no. I knew I wanted to say no. My heart and soul felt it, but I pressured myself to be someone I am not. I let myself down, and I paid the price. Dreading plans for five nights wasn’t the worst part. It turns out it’s the pain of feeling something wrong with you and wondering what it is.
The truth is, there’s nothing wrong with me.
I had and still have many reasons why I don’t want friends. I have three sisters with whom I am very close. I have three children, who are time and attention-sucking bundles of adolescent joy. I have a job (or two), an ex-husband, a part-time boyfriend and absolutely zero free time. I am an introvert and feel most energized after spending a quiet evening all by myself and drifting off to sleep by 9 p.m. My life is full. I am fulfilled. There isn’t room for more commitment. And that’s what friendships are after all – a commitment to be there for someone, to be reliable and dependable and offer emotional support and enjoy entertainment together. Friendships are hugs and laughter and phone calls and plans and gifts and thank-yous — all these wonderful things that require time, energy and enthusiasm that I don’t have the space for right now.
And so, after thinking about it for a while, I realize that that's ok.
This is me and I love me. I don’t need to apologize or feel guilty. I do know, however, that I need to honor my true self and own my decision to be friendless. I need to get comfortable saying, “Sorry, I don’t give my number out.” I need to embrace the discomfort of saying, “No book club for me, I will be in bed introverting and loving it.” It isn’t easy. And I don’t want to hurt the feelings of other women I genuinely like. But I do want to be happy and free of resentment. I haven’t found the words or the courage to live this truth just yet, but I know I will. And maybe when I do, I can be an even better friend to myself.
Monica Garwood
