40 Years, Not 40 Friends

Nothing's harder for a recluse than being asked for a list of her friends and their contact info.

And nothing is more depressing than someone asking for this a few weeks before said recluse turns 40.

I don't mind turning 40. I'm kind of looking forward to it, in fact. I'm done with my 30s and ready to move on to the next adventure, much as I was totally over my 20s and ready to turn 30 a decade ago (31, however, was a tough birthday. 31 means you are actually in your 30s, which at the time seemed most of the way toward old). I'm ready to turn 40. I'm happy about it.

Plus, I'll be one of the youngest in my age group at races, giving me some kind of edge, right? Right?

So that's not what has me down. No, it's that my brother asked me for a list of names of friends (and their contact info) to plan a party for me.

I thought for a minute.

"Um....friends. Sure. Hang on. Let me think for a sec."

About eight or ten years ago, my close friends started moving to far-flung places: Arizona, California, Omaha, Chicago. Vermont. Pennsylvania. Delaware. Maine. We kept in touch, but of course we all start finding new friends closer to home.

And then I got married, which changed a lot of relationships for me. If I say I'm a recluse, well, I look like a blazing socialite next to my hermit of a husband.

And then we had babies.

I no longer want to go out. I'm tired. I'm hopelessly unfashionable. I own one decent "casual night out" top. I'm overwhelmed by work and laundry and my children's needs. I have a marriage to maintain (I know that makes it sound as sexy as cleaning gutters, but marriage with two young children is not always spanky fun, you know?).

When I do finally get out the door and to my destination, I'm a little dazed. I haven't been out in months, remember. And just being away from the mayhem of bedtime is so stunning that I can do little more than stare and smile blandly and sip a drink and ask the same question three times, interrupting the answer each time with something intriguing and thrilling like, "Wow, I can't believe I am not home trying to get Max to pee before bed!"

I could still have friends, even if I don't go out, but I don't. I have about three "real-life" friends, one of whom just had a baby (as in, less than a week ago) and another with whom I've fallen out of touch (my fault).

Otherwise, there's my running group, my blog-world people (both bloggers and commenters), and my Facebook friends. My running group is probably the closest thing I have to real live friends, really. I spend more time with them than with anyone else. While we don't get too personal, we know each other pretty well.

But wouldn't it be weird to see them in the evening, in regular clothes? And to talk about something other than our pace?

So, much as I'd love to proffer up a list of friends, dear brother, I don't think I have enough friends to generate an actual list. This isn't any sort of pity party; I don't think I'm lonely. I guess I just live behind a screen so much that I don't really talk to many people any more.

Oh, that does sound pathetic, doesn't it.

My 40th birthday will be a low-key affair with a few essential ingredients: a long morning trail run on the actual day of my birthday, a weekend away with just C for some backcountry skiing, some small family celebration, and maybe a dinner out with my two remaining actual friends.

And it will be grand, any and all of it.