man's search for (social) market fit: part I

friendship is hard

suppose you want to make a friend. she’s a girl who attends the same club pickleball team as you. you hate pickleball, but you joined to meet people and get out of the house once in a while and have some semblance of a social life. but the way the game is played is oh so fucking annoying, like tennis’ less legitimate cousin.

who cares though. you’re tired of labeling yourself as too smart for others to understand. instead, now, you want to understand others. pickleball it is.

suppose you want to actually get to know the only other person on the team who laughed at the joke you made — it was something among the lines of a pun about racquets that you thought was pretty original but no one else did — and winked at you reassuringly when everyone else snorted. she who’s slightly attractive to boot.

you think she seems really cool, because she always shows up to class with her hair tied up high with a rainbow scrunchie that makes her look like a kid, but her voice, low and husky, exemplifies the fact that she’s a woman, and she wears skorts in a time where no one else wears skorts anymore and has no qualms about showing skin. she’s a little chubbier than the average person, but when she throws her head back and laughs, her smile reaches all the way back to her ears, making her look like a cartoon character. this makes her seem approachable. this makes you wonder if she’d want to get to know you. all the small things you begin observing about her, to you, must mean she has an alternative and zany personality. you consider yourself of this disposition too. maybe she’d like the secret meme account where you post minor complaints about your coworkers every other day.

you’re not trying to date; you’ve barely even exercised the muscle of talking to others. you want to get to know her better; that’s all you can feel for now.

one day, you approach her after pickleball. she’s running her fingers through her long red hair after releasing it from the embrace of her scrunchie. now she has her attention on you, and she’s looking you up and down trying to ascertain your motives.

you realize she’s scrutinizing you because you’ve accidentally scrutinized her for a minute too long.

you open your mouth, but your tongue begins tying. your cheeks begin flaring up. you’re losing the words you had minutes ago. “Oh no…” you sputter aloud. that wasn’t part of the script!

“I was going to ask you if you wanted to hang sometime.”

you pause, feeling your gaze drop down to your white, scuffed up tennis shoes. ‘I was going to ask’ — does that mean you didn’t just ask? Oh God what if she thinks you’re lame now?

well, you are lame, maybe? now you’re waiting for a response. you’re feeling her hesitancy, but hope she thinks you’re cooler than you have given off so far and will say yes.

you look back up. she’s staring at you. you’re not sure if it’s because she wants you to fuck off, or because she’s trying to find the words to reject you.

“never mind,” you sputter out. you feel embarrassed. so you turn around to walk away, shaking your head at your own audacity.

you’re stopped by her low, husky voice — “and… why would I want to hang out with you?”

you stop, taken aback by the judgmental words. you can’t believe someone genuinely said that aloud. you duck your head and mutter, “I don’t know… because you seemed like you liked my jokes, so I wanted to see if we could be friends —”

a force suddenly GRABS your arm, throws you backward in a way that is startling both physically and psychically. you gasp in surprise as your feet slip, but as the hand around your arm suddenly releases, it pushes you back into place so you end up standing upright again, dignity intact.

that got your attention. you turn around. pickleball girl was the force in question. she’s smirking at you, her eyebrows furiously furrowed, glaring at you in a way that almost seems challenging.

“i’m not saying no,” she says with a slight sneer. “but i have conditions to hang out with peoplllle…. and i’m wondering where you got the audacity to ask as if i’d say yes?”

you stutter, completely taken aback. is this schrodinger’s consent? if you assume she’s saying yes… will she then say no? if you assume she’s saying no… will she then say yes?

what have you gotten yourself into?

suddenly, you come back to earth because she’s suddenly ten inches from your face, and her index finger is jabbing your chest.

“The” — poke — “criteria” —poke — “for being my friend” — poke — “is far” — poke — “more abstract than just IF” — poke —" “I seem COOL to you!”

pickleball girl is now staring at you shaking her head. she seems… mad you’re even asking?

you’re used to being rejected, but maybe with an uncomfortable excuse, or a firm boundary, or just flat out not responding.

this type of aggression was way more thrilling.

“We are going to hang out,” she growls. “And while we hang out, we’re not going to have this f*cking sort of cringe basic exchange where we scramble to find something to talk about. We’re going to talk about EXACTLY what just happened here.”

what? what the hell happened here?

“You don’t know, do you,” she says with a slight snort. “You just tried to peg me as a NORMIE girl, didn’t you? Some sweet, nice, rando with a ponytail for you to just befriend and roll the dice and see!”

“You didn’t even bother catcalling me…” she smirks. “I wish you’d at least not given me the awkward ask, as if you care about me more than you care insofar that I’m a girl and you just don’t want to be rejected by a girl. You don’t care about me. You don’t even know me.”

“What,” you sputter. “I don’t know you, but I’ll never know you unless I ask you to hang out?”

“But,” she growls again. “Why would I … say… yes… because you gave me… literally nothing… to go off.”

She grabs her long red hair aggressively and begins tying it into a ponytail again. “Listen, buddy,” she said, leaning down to grab her backpack before slinging it over one shoulder and putting her hands on her hips. “You either respond to my tentative yes and consent to me interrogating you on who you really are before I decide to give a sh*t about you and tell you what you did wrong that could’ve made me reject you, or you never get answers for your total social inappropriateness. Up to you.”

suppose you, with an ego more bruised beyond belief, decide for some godforsaken reason to say yes.

what happens next?

*****

Part II coming this week!