Lonely No More
Healing: With Rob Thomas
Week of May 24th to May 30th, 2022
You successfully made the bird nesting on your windowsill your entire personality, Virgo.
You’ve spent whole afternoons cooing and cawing her way, certain the window separating you couldn’t obstruct your earnest (yet aggressive) affections. You’d bid her a morose goodbye when you left for the day, and rush to the window to greet her as soon as you returned. You’d ask for her take on current events (she exuded a leftish energy, which was a relief). You’d sing “bird songs” to her (I originally included a draft of your favorite bird song, Pajaro Wonderland, but I respect the readers too much to present them with such a haunting text) when she seemed to need melodic encouragement.
Despite your devotion to your windowsill bird, this week you’ll run to the window to greet her in the morning and she will be gone. Her two little eggs, too.
To a well adjusted person, this would be a simple disappointment. But to an out of control sap who’s breathlessly prepared to pile all her metaphorical eggs in one basket whenever, wherever—this came as a devastating blow.
The first three times you cry about the bird, you’re under the impression that your sorrow is actually about the bird. You’d been hoping to see the baby birds hatch, in spite of all of their traits (hard to look at, whiny, don’t help out, always suckin’ down pre chewed food).
Bird propaganda had you believing there were many days of baby bird trepidation prior to Taking The Leap, but it’s clear to you now that baby birds can apparently fly instantly.
When you cried about the bird’s absence times 4-7, it dawned on you that this probably wasn’t just about the bird (even though she was seriously so cute).
Unfortunately for you, the now phantom windowsill bird represented far more than spring or rebirth or any other already symbolic heavy hitter. For you, Virgo, she was also a lens through which you could examine your loneliness.
You’re in good company, Virgo. Rob Thomas was lonely in 2005 (until he finally had enough).
During the pandemic you went from bartending (painfully social), to working from home (you talk to your pens now). From improvising (social in a humiliating kind of way), to “focussing on writing” (eating/complaining in bed). From drinking as many margaritas as possible (chat fuel), to getting “really into” hibiscus tea (stains your teeth, crystallizes inhibitions).
There were plenty of other changes, too. People moved, friendships wilted without frequent in-person attention, and the clarity offered by increased free time allowed many of your friends to recalibrate their priorities (which didn’t include eating desserts and gossiping with you; as these are two pastimes people often retire when pursuing self improvement).
As you assess the landscape of your five years in New York, you see that although there are plenty of people you consider a friend, and many people you even love, there isn’t a single person in the city you’d call if you saw an ex-boyfriend on the train.
Which is to say: you do not have a best friend in New York.
To clarify, the skies consider the title of “best friend” to be a tier. It isn't a single individual, but a designation one gradually achieves by enduring your company over an extended period of time. You have best friends in other cities, just not in New York. Although phone calls with your far away top tier can regenerate you, you'd like to add a locally based beloved to the mix.
When the bird was on your windowsill, you put all your dormant best friend energy onto her (it was hard to watch). Once she was gone, you tried to reckon with your best friend sized ache. “Reckon” isn’t exactly what I’d call what you actually did, which was cry on and off all morning, then go see a matinee play about female friendship which made you cry for the rest of the day.
Though the skies are all knowing, there are certain aspects of the human experience that we’ve only empirically mastered. With merely a theoretical baseline, we lack the empathy necessary to fully grasp the weight of how you’re feeling. So we’ve taken the liberty of finding a liaison of loneliness to help you traverse your era of solitude.
This may already be clear to you, but I’ve selected singer songwriter Rob Thomas.
When it comes to finding an NYC BFF, as explained in Rob Thomas’s 2005 hit, This Is How A Heart Breaks, “Life is like a mean machine.”
Despite your objectively concerning degree of best friend loneliness, your pandemic comfort level is still in a different place than most people you know. So although you want to find a NYC BFF, you’re still mostly horrified at the thought of sharing airborne particles with others. Which is problematic, since many airborne particles are shared when two people scream-sing every word of Ashlee Simpson’s 2004 album, Autobiography (which is, statistically, the best possible activity for two best friends).
You know that a best friendship takes time, Rome wasn’t built in a day, etc. But you also know a best friend can be met anywhere, at any time (a bathroom and a hot tub are two places you have met best friends). But you’re getting worried it won’t happen anytime soon. Where will you meet the newest addition to your tier?
Since you’re hoping to find your NYC BFF, you have been a little too eager to connect during passing exchanges. If someone compliments your dress, does that mean they want to talk with you about the Lizzie McGuire Movie and Paolo’s diminished appeal? Does a neighbor’s nod while you take out the trash mean they want to try your homemade lavender peach ice cream and then play Do, Marry, Kill? Is a person pausing to pick up their dog’s excrement actually waiting for you to ask them to ride the east river ferry and discuss laser hair removal over a thoughtfully packed lunch?
You miss that intimacy, and the lysergic otherworldly joy of a sleepover.
Speaking of lysergic, remember this?
What I’ve learned from Rob Thomas is that loneliness feels bad. But as I’ve also learned from Rob Thomas, companionship can also feel bad. It isn't everyday that best friend magic overtakes you; that’s what makes those connections so special! I know it may not feel like it, but there’s a gal in New York (Brooklyn, specifically—I know no soulmate can withstand the test of separate burroughs) out there who wants to go to the Wendy Williams live tapings and thinks your only okay homemade desserts are worthy of praise. One day you’ll usher her into your best friend tier, but for now she’ll remain a mystery. So get out there and meet some gals, Virgo!