What Kind of Friend Am I?

This morning when I looked in the bathroom mirror, I wasn’t sure who would reflect back: a best buddy or a second-tier friend.  

Good buddies call or text one another frequently.  They ask about your kid’s ear infection or whether he got that early college admittance.  Best buds worry with you about your father’s physical decline or your mom’s memory loss. Buddies are the dear friends, the special people, who are battling it out next to you in life’s trenches, walk the victory lap with you, or carry you on their back over the finish line.

Conversely, a second tier friend is a gal-pal. She’s a nice woman with whom you enjoy having lunch or coffee, someone who makes you laugh, tells great stories, but who doesn’t make the cut  (i.e. guest list) for your son or daughter’s wedding.  In life, these sorts of people far outnumber those we hold dear.

Each time I check the mailbox for a delayed wedding invite, I wonder which of these descriptions of friends apply to me.  If the creamy white envelope lands soon emblazoned with those extra heart stamps, my head will rise off my chest.  I am the best bud I believed myself to be. However, if the junk mail and bills continue to crowd that silver cylinder, and the invite is a no-show, hurt will crease my brow. 

New friends, old friends, oldest friends, childhood friends, new-old friends, casual friends, acquaintances, work friends, golf and tennis buddies, neighbors, best friends and soul mates. We all have some or all of these connections. Folks you see everyday, some you see only once a year, people you only see at yoga, on the train, or in the grocery store.  With all of these people, you have something in common, a connection, a shared activity that leads you to believe, suggests that you might have or convinces you that this person is ‘a friend’. And so it goes, the degrees of friendship.

We classify folks in this manner, yet do we consider ourselves from the other side of the equation?

We know what a friend may mean to us, but we do not know where we reside on their spectrum of friendship.

Three ladies and I from the ‘old neighborhood’ (alias ‘the suburbs’) meet for lunch every few months.  There are other women that flit in and out of this lunch group, but the four of us are the nucleus, have been for over twenty years.  Most of our kids lined up in the same grades, but not all were the same-sex so friendships between the kids were awkward. Between our four families, half attended the Catholic grammar school and the other half went to the public grade school.

In summer, the eleven kids between us cruised the two-block radius we called our neighborhood on bikes, roller blades, and skateboards. They held lemonade stands, pedaled to the pool, trapped lightning bugs, and begged for sleepovers. In winter, the gang saw one another after school, on the ice rink, at Church, or at organized activities like Scouts. As stay-at-home moms, the four of us were in almost daily contact: Have you seen Annie? No, try Maureen’s house; I thought I saw her bike there. If she comes your way, send her home. Sure thing. Because of our kids, I was in the thick of life with these three women. Did I have other friends, better friends, friends I’d known longer? Of course, but my relationship with these women and their families was special to me. 

When my daughter married four years ago, these three neighbor friends were invited and I sat them together. Since then there’s been more weddings, bridal showers, engagements and lunch dates. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be invited to an impending nuptial. Three weeks ago, I realized I hadn’t received a wedding invite for the son of one of these three ladies, a boy with whom my son hung out often until high school. I was holding a spot on my calendar, and didn’t realize I’d been left off the save-the-date mailing. I texted one of the other two ladies to see if she’d received her invite. She had and assured me that since the engaged couple was doing the invites, mine must be on its way.

Two weeks before the wedding, the invite hadn’t landed.  I made up a plethora of stories in my head, but it seemed the reality was: I hadn’t made the cut-off. I was a second tier friend. I get that we can’t all be best friends, or fall into that good friend category, but when we think we are good enough and discover we’re not- ouch.  I was miffed. On my morning walk I considered what I had done to relegate myself to this other level of friendship.

When I reentered the house, I heard my cell phone ring.  I recognized the number, let the call go to voicemail, and then retrieved it.  There was a mix-up, my wedding invite had been returned for a bad zip code.  I was invited.  Could I still come?

I continue to ponder this issue of tiers of friendships and where I place the good buddies and gal pals in my own life.  As I am one who finds it difficult to clean out her closet, discard a favorite pair of jeans that no longer fit, I don’t sideline any of my friends, new or old. I worked too hard to assemble the motley crew that ease in and out of the crevices of my life. I value them all, but acknowledge that fitting them all onto a potential guest list is tricky.

As a result of this waiting-for-the-invite experience or which-friend-am-I episode, I have a suggestion for wedding planners. Before impending nuptials, have the happy couple send out two mailings: “Save The Date” cards for potential attendees, and “Don’t Save The Date” postcards for the second tier folks.  This would save those of us that fell, unknowingly, below the cutoff the embarrassment of hanging out by the mailbox and pestering the mailman about a missing thick, oversized cream envelope with fancy calligraphy.

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