It’s not uncommon to learn the faces of one’s morning commute. In a parallel universe, I’m on a first-name basis with the petite, stylish, cigarette-smoking Asian man whom I’ve passed every day at Girard Station for the last two years. He calls me “sis” and offers a drag when he senses my day’s off to a particularly rough start. That universe is, of course, liberated from the social canons restricting me from ever achieving such subway camaraderie, which assert that I keep quiet and don’t look anyone in the eye, assuming they’ve yet to have their coffee.
I’ve come to find social media isn’t much different. I see the same faces daily—many of whom I’ve never met—and the potential for real connection is almost equally unlikely, despite normalized avenues of outreach (e.g. DM slides). Try as I may to coordinate plans with Internet Strangers, they rarely materialize, leaving me wondering if it was something I said that was lost behind a screen, or if this is just the way things are and I need to assimilate. Either way, there’s a pointed hopelessness to it all.
Making friends in adulthood is hard. It’s even harder when socialization is at the core of your identity. I’ll never forget the moment I emerged from my cocoon a social butterfly at the tender age of seven. My friend’s older brother teased, “I heard all the girls were fighting over who got to sit next to Dia at lunch,” as my cheeks assumed a cherry flush. The better part of my life was spent surrounded by friends and eager to make more. I’ve just always loved people, and when you extend love, it’s usually reciprocated. But 20 years after that lunch table debacle, I’ve found people aren’t as receptive as my school days. With the “good vibes,” “sprinkle kindness like confetti,” “real connections” references littering my Instagram feed with little practice behind the preaching, it presents confusion for someone who really adheres to such philosophies, and would love to like, braid each other’s hair or whatever IRL.
Another favorite face of my morning commute is the man whom I’ve caught three times wearing a t-shirt that reads, “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t want to come.” For seemingly doing more things than ever, people really don’t want to do things. The internet exhales a collective breath of relief every time plans are cancelled. There’s a pervasive rise in flakiness enabling people to view others’ time so flippantly that they don’t think twice about cancelling hours before an outing, ignoring what that might do to someone’s schedule or worse, self-esteem. I’ve personally been rejected and cancelled on so many times that it paralyzes me from trying for fear of unmatched enthusiasm.
Unreliability has become so ubiquitous that it’s a stand-alone comedic bit. In 2015, The New Yorker ran the piece, Let’s Get Drinks—a generation-defining chronicle of two friends’ back-and-forth nightmare attempt to meet for cocktails or coffee. The dysphemisms for “I’m the worst” grow increasingly diabolical as the exchange progresses, prefacing excuses for not meeting up with, “I am worse than the global food crisis” or “I am literally Operation Rolling Thunder mixed with the N.F.L.’s policy on domestic violence.” It’s only slightly hyperbolic.
There’s a new-ish notion that qualifies saying no as a form of self-care. Even wellness bloggers like Lee From America are speaking out about the power of protecting one’s energy through rejecting plans. I can understand. Realistically, there are only so many hours in a day. As our generation burns out like a Diptyque candle, we’re grinding to use those hours efficiently and desperate to decompress. Meeting up is hard and often expensive. When we’re all exhausted from our jobs and the ongoing job of simply keeping it together, it’s challenging to form serious friendships.
Alas, I’m starting to feel stagnant—like I’m alone in craving closeness beyond the comment section, but also understanding that times are tough and we all need room to breathe. But then I get an email notifying me that Rachel’s package is on the way. Rachel is a friend I made via DM slide with whom I’ve chilled twice. We speak openly and vulnerably like two friends who’ve known each other for years. And it just so happens she needed rose hip oil days after I paid $15 to Sephora for free shipping for a year. If Rachel is any indication of where my adult social life is headed in 2019, then maybe all hope isn’t lost after all.