I like people. I like being around people - talking, energy, things happening.
My other half does not.
He is actively looking for jobs in lighthouses in the Outer Hebrides. Or possibly as the sole guardian of a desert island. If there is a role that involves minimal human contact and no phone signal, he’d send his CV. So, between the two of us, there is a slight mismatch: I want a busy social calendar. He’s hoping for another lockdown.
When I moved back to the UK after ten years abroad and found myself with approximately no friends, I found it rather confusing. I'd genuinely thought I'd be able to pick up where I left off. But ten years is a long time and people don't just stay paused waiting for you to come back. Strangely enough, their lives seem to move on ten years too.
I was now living in a completely new area, and I didn't know anyone except for my other half, who was rather pleased that we didn’t know anyone. So I was left asking myself: how do you make friends as an adult? I mean, how hard can it be? After all, I was little Miss Popular in the playground. Surely all I need to do is show people a new trick in Cat’s Cradle and ask, "Will you be my friend?"
But the old methods don't work.
As soon as I landed at the airport, I was reminded that having a good old natter with people on the Tube categorises you immediately as a nutter. Complimenting dog walkers on their cute puppies and asking if they "want to come back for a coffee?" is apparently considered dodgy behaviour.
"Do you want to be my friend and come to my house to play?", which worked like a treat when I was seven, is also a no-go. Social norms are very fragile.
A few years back, social media felt like the answer. A way to revive old friendships. But the conversation were always variations of the same thing before they fizzled out
"Hey Stranger, it’s been aaaages! How are you? Do you still keep in contact with X? No? Me neither. Have you heard from Y? No? Me neither.” And then... tumbleweed.
Too much time and life had passed.
Even if you do find a willing victim who is contemplating whether you are a serial killer or a potential new friend, actually getting together can be a bizarre dance. A ‘quick’ coffee requires aligning schedules, circling back, pencilling in, locking in, then rain-checking, then shifting and squeezing before you miss the window entirely and have to wait until 2029 for a new slot that works.
And if I'm honest, it felt personal. How was it that at my age I had no friends nearby? Surely if I could accumulate this many kilos over the years, a few friends should be easy. What was wrong with me? Why was I Billy-no-mates? (That is genuinely what my other half called me. Little sweetheart that he is.)
Convenience, Convenience and Fairy Dust
And this got me thinking about what the ingredients for friendship actually are, which is also discussed in Mel Robbins' book Let Them, where she divides it up into proximity, timing and energy. I, however, have my own version and divide it up into convenience, convenience and fairy dust.
The first one is proximity, or convenience.
If three families live on the same street, their kids go to the same school, and they bump into each other every day, they will probably become close. Not because they carefully chose one another, but because they're there.
Meanwhile, you might really like someone, but if you only see them once in a blue moon, the relationship simply doesn't get the hours. Friendship is built on hours.
There is even research on this. A study by Jeffrey Hall at the University of Kansas found that it takes roughly 50 hours to move beyond acquaintance level, around 90 hours to become a casual friend, and over 200 hours to develop a close friendship. Which is mildly useful information if any of us happen to have 200 spare hours lying around.
But it isn't just time. It's the type of time. Spending 200 hours sitting in meetings together, standing next to someone at the gym, or exchanging polite nods in the supermarket doesn't magically make you friends. The study found that informal, unstructured time does most of the heavy lifting. You need opportunities to spend time together.
Then there is timing.
Are you in the same stage of life? Because if you're not, things become harder.
If someone's life revolves around jet-setting to far-off lands, popping pills with pina coladas and living la vida loca, while yours revolves around putting the bins out, popping a magnesium supplement with camomile tea and getting your eight hours, conversation isn't always effortless. You can still care about each other deeply, but you're no longer moving at the same pace.
I remember a period where I was spending every day at the hospital with my dad for six months, talking about MRI scans, antibiotics and infected sores, while a friend was stressed because she couldn't get her nails done before flying to Bali for her wedding. There was nothing wrong with either of us. The timing was just completely off.
I see timing at work when it comes to children and the rather brilliant social conveyor belt that exists around them. School gates, sports clubs, birthday parties, WhatsApp groups. It starts at neonatal classes, rolls into nursery, then school, then university. Everyone gets moved along at roughly the same pace and keeps bumping into the same people in the same places. Not because they have found their perfect people, but because their lives line up without much effort.
And finally there is fairy dust. This is the hardest one to pin down.
You know when you click with someone. Conversations don't feel like work and you're not minding your P's and Q's. There is no awkwardness. Some people are just easy to be around and some people aren't. And interestingly, you might once have clicked with someone and now you don't in quite the same way. That's uncomfortable to admit, so most people don't. Instead, you hold on because of history.
But essentially, fairy dust is whether you enjoy being around each other without effort. It's the difference between a conversation that flows and one that needs carrying. Between leaving energised and leaving oddly tired.
Where Are The People?
As I was reading about proximity, timing and energy, I wondered if perhaps I had been asking the wrong question. Instead of wondering why I didn't have any friends, maybe I should have been paying more attention to the people already in my life.
I really love my job. I know it is an annoying thing to read when many people would happily run from theirs, but honestly, I have the best job in the universe. Teaching yoga is like being the DJ at a party. You strut in, say "let's get this partaaay started," and for the next hour everyone goes on a trip together. The experience is completely personal and completely shared at the same time.
I get a front-row seat to watching people weave themselves into each other's lives. The back row who all know each other, save each other mats and groan in chorus when I suggest a movement they dislike. The people who ask where someone is when they miss a class. Those who know whose dog has been ill, whose daughter has gone to university, who is recovering from surgery, who has just come back from holiday. Sometimes it takes me ages to get people to stop chatting at the beginning because they are busy catching up.
Putting in the Hours
Are they all close friends? No. Would they all invite each other to Christmas dinner? Probably not. But nor are they strangers.
The funny thing is that now I've settled into this area, I realise I know far more people than I thought I did. If I walk into Tesco, there's a good chance I'll bump into at least half a dozen people I recognise. The woman in aisle three: Front Row Rita. The man near the frozen peas: Shrieky Shih Tzu Dad. But I'm not sure about the lady in heels. I'd need to see her sweaty, hair scraped back and without make-up before I could confirm she's Injured Shoulder Mary from Monday morning hot yoga.
Somewhere along the line, without really noticing, I'd put my hours in. Teaching classes, walking dogs, chatting to people, bumping into the same faces, week after week. No, they aren't all close friends, but nor are they strangers. Looking back, I didn't really find a social life. I simply built one. One class, one dog walk and one familiar face at a time.
Mind you, if my other half gets his way and finds that lighthouse in the Outer Hebrides, I may be back to being Billy-no-mates before long.
Photo by Joachim Riegel on Unsplash