I have some friends who are only good for a good time.
That good time lasts about as long as it takes me to get drunk and remember I couldn’t call them up if I was stranded on the side of the road, or dumped on a quiet Tuesday evening. Our bonds are born on dancefloors, and there, too, they shall die, cracked tombstones reading, “Here lies Pregame Girl. I really thought we had something.”
Who’s there when the music stops?
That’s what I ask myself to poeticize the harsh, but necessary process of discerning real friends from party friends. It wasn’t until my late twenties that I became unnerved by the latter, and by my own naivete in believing things were closer between us.
My idea of what separates a party friend from a real friend is not solely centered on partying. I’ve met some of the loveliest people in my life partying, and for one circumstance or another, the only way we associate throughout the year is when we all get together… to party. Those limitations don’t weaken the integrity of our relationship; I know that if we met another way, or had the time, we’d be closer. Those are still real friends in my book.
The party friend, however, upholds a seductive long con. They trickle in with robotic hugs and feigned confusion about why we don’t see each other more. We rip shots to dissolve the awkwardness and before we know it, we’ve got our arms around each other singing “We Are the Champions” with all of McGillin’s. It’s years before I realize they always have “somewhere to be” and “have to dip early,” which is to say I am their second tier fun—and as Blair Waldorf so famously asserted, “I’m not a stop along the way. I’m a destination.”
I’m over the party friend. I’m over the version of myself who collected them like vinyl. I liken the party friend to my stint with the Atkins Diet: party friends provide the same short rush of self-satisfaction as losing weight quickly. There is little emotional difference between feeling skinny and feeling wanted by people with bottle service. It all comes from a broken place, or at least the shallow part of your brain that vies to stay 22 forever. Once I recognized my relationship with the party friend as unsustainable, as draining as cutting carbs, I could see it for what it was all along: a royal sham.
Party friends made me believe I was only valuable insofar as I could water down the painful parts of my life. Suck it up and hit the club. Be a well-dressed fixture of their Instagram story. Never need a listening ear or a helping hand. I thought they were so full of life because they were always partying, and that I was boring and weird for wanting more out of my relationships. But there’s a deadness in the eyes of the party friend, that of someone who hasn’t felt the warmth of liquorless heart-to-hearts. And if I spend enough time around them, I start writing my own eulogy.
Who’s there when the music stops?
My real, enduring friendships are a barometer for who I am as a person. Take Jake for instance. Jake and I have been friends since high school. He was MIA chasing major league dreams for a few years, but we’ve always kept in touch, and it’s always been a grounding force of goodness in my life. In my four years living in Philly, no one had ever invited me to a Phillies game. Jake had been back in the area for a while, so when the Phillies played his old team, the Cardinals, we went together. It started pouring as soon as we arrived, delaying the game and sending fans scrambling for Yuenglings and soft pretzels to cushion the wait. But as soon as the skies cleared and we were in our seats, it was business as usual: chatting writing, religion, etc. like we hadn’t missed a beat. Some say baseball’s a perfect metaphor for life. I’m sure Jake would, having spent so much of his on the diamond. I say eating a hotdog by someone you care about in a stadium glittering with fresh rain while Bryce Harper hits a homerun is, at the very least, a sacred experience. One that affirms my disenchantment with the party friend.
I like to think I’ll always party. That no job or kids or quaintness of life will quell my need to see 4 AM every now and then. I just want to party with the right people. I want to know that if I ugly cry, it’s not going to end up in some group chat dissecting how awkward that was and how needy I am. I want friends who give advice and remember my birthday. Who answer my FaceTimes and come over for dinner. Who are there, invariably, when the music stops.
The ugly cry that is shrugged off when beseeching a party friend for a slice of time. When the party friend stops all contact because of all the nerve I moved out of the sacred party bubble. Instant deflation of self esteem and all those things done to garner favor become a shameful secret I wish I could forget like so many black out nights. But now my friends and family matter. I matter. I just wish occassionally they got stupid drunk and sang with me.
I haven been talking so much about this with my close friends, and how I have sort of placed my party friends in a different "box" and put it on some metaphorical storage shelf. The pandemic has certainly shown me clearly who is there for me in whatever capacity, and who I am comfortable being vulnerable around. As my circle gets smaller it's easier to decipher why, and what I value in different friendships. I think I'm starting to adjust my expectations of people, and learn not to take friendships that don't hold as much meaning as I once thought too personally.