Page 5 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
I’ve tried many low-stakes dating apps over the last year. And by “tried,” I mean I created a profile, swiped yes or no on dozens of guys from the comfort of my couch, and failed to keep any conversation alive for more than a day. As for going on a date with any of these guys… it just never seems that appealing. Maybe I’m too comfortable being single.
When I switch over to Bumble BFF and swipe through some would-be best girlfriends, the women on there look so cheerful, so fun, so active. I don’t feel that way at all. Most of my photos are from my pre-pandemic life. Somehow it’s even more intimidating to try to schedule a meetup with a potential platonic friend than with a romantic partner. It all feels pointless. It’s like I’m trying to fill a void that society has told me I need to fill. But I don’t mind being alone most of the time. I like it. Is that so wrong?
Anyway, I do have friends. Or if we’re only counting non-work friends… at least I have one. And I’m seeing her tomorrow for our semi-regular happy hour. So there.
I get to the restaurant in Belltown at two minutes to five. Carmen texts to say that she’s running ten minutes late. I hover on the sidewalk outside. My best friend has known me long enough to know that she shouldn’t do this to me.
You can do this, I tell myself.Nobody cares if you’re alone. Nobody is paying attention to you. Go in and sit down.
Somehow I’ve reached my ripe old age without learning how to confidently enter a restaurant by myself.
But I can’t just stand here blocking the sidewalk. I take a deep breath and go in.
The place is warm and gently lit with red-hued chandeliers. I take a seat at the bar and put my purse on the stool next to me to save it for Carmen.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.
“Um…” I laugh nervously, my eyes glued to the cocktail menu in front of me. “I should wait for my friend. She’ll be here soon.”
She is not here soon. Ten minutes turn to twenty. I’ve scrolled through everything there is to scroll on my phone when she finallyarrives, long hair and long scarf flying as she sweeps breathlessly through the restaurant.
“Sorry, sorry!” She leans in for a hug, smelling like Calvin Klein Euphoria and cold sweat. “Look at you, girl, I love this sweater!”
“Your hair looks gorgeous, did you get a blowout?”
Compliments are our love language. She settles in beside me and we order two Plum Blossom cocktails and a dozen oysters, the tomato and Gorgonzola salad, and the seared ahi tuna.
“Howareyou, what’s new?” she asks, sipping her drink. I fill her in on my trip to Florida.
“Ugh, was your cousin Ellie as annoying as ever?”
“I guess so. I don’t know. She was fine.” I get a prickle of annoyance at the memory of Ellie asking who I was trying to impress.
That’s the thing about having a friend for decades. Carmen knows everything about me, and mostly everything about my family, and she has the memory of an elephant. It’s almost like trying to be best friends with my sister—we just have too much shared history.
I ask Carmen about herself. One of the many things I love about her is that the girl cantalk. I cannot express enough how helpful it is for someone like me to be friends with someone like Carmen. She does ninety percent of the talking in our relationship, and we both prefer it that way.
“Oh my God, okay, so you know I said I was thinking about ending things with Peter, right, but I was putting it off because Idolike the sex. Well, it was totally random, but this guy at the gym actually asked me out a few weeks ago and we’ve been seeing each other like multiple times a week.”
“Wait, Hot Gym Guy asked you out?” I’m intrigued. I’ve been hearing about Hot Gym Guy for a while now.
“No, not him. This is a new one I hadn’t seen before. He’s bald but, like, tall and buff. His name’s Edgar. He straight up started flirtingwith me and asked if he could take me out sometime. Who does that?” Carmen flushes happily and pops a tomato slice in her mouth.
It’s true, I didn’t know people still did that. Getting approached by a man is extremely rare. Heck, making eye contact with a man is extremely rare. Or it is if you’re me.
Carmen goes on to update me about her sibling drama and her work drama. She always has drama. I’m familiar with most of her co-workers by name even though I’ve never met them. Carmen hasn’t changed much since we met in gym class in sixth grade. Even at age eleven, she had copious amounts of hair and self-confidence. Becoming friends with her was easy: I mumbled under my breath about how running the mile was cruel and unusual punishment, she laughed and said, “You’re funny! I like you.” And that was that.
We’ve had more than our fair share of laughs and adventures together. We were like the stars of our own buddy comedy: her the brash, seductive one, me the snarky, mischievous one. But lately, every time we meet up and I hear about all the funny and fabulous things in Carmen’s life, I feel more and more like the sidekick character. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it sometimes makes me wonder what I’m doing with my life.
“Oh shit.” Carmen covers her mouth with one hand, swallowing her mouthful of food, and stares pointedly over my shoulder. “I thought that was Mr. Edelman. Looks like him.”
The name has an instantaneous and powerful effect on me. My stomach clenches and my face burns hotter than the tea light candle on the bar in front of us. I’m scared to turn around.
“Calm down, lady, it’s not him.” She snorts and spoons vinaigrette onto an oyster.
“Then why did you have to say it?” I exhale shakily and glance over my shoulder. There’s a man with dark cropped hair and a profile that looks vaguely like—“And don’t call him that.”
“He’ll always be Mr. Edelman to me.” She’s still smirking, like this is just too funny.
