There is an episode of Seinfeld called “The Pool Guy” where Ramon, an acquaintance of Jerry’s, tries his hardest to insert himself into Jerry’s life. He runs into Jerry at the movie theater and latches onto him for the rest of the night. He drops in for a surprise visit at Jerry’s apartment. He even offers to tag along with Jerry while he’s running errands. (When Jerry says he has to go and do “stuff,” Ramon eagerly says, “I’m up for some stuff!”)
To no viewer’s surprise, this annoys Jerry tremendously. Ramon is a perfectly nice guy, but through Jerry’s lens, he is overeager, annoyingly positive, and maybe even too talkative.
On their way off the train later that day, Jerry, visibly exhausted by Ramon, blurts out, “Look, you’re a nice guy, but I actually only have three friends and I really can’t handle any more.”
Ramon is instantly offended and blames Jerry’s aversion to him on his lackluster occupation as a pool boy. The scene ends with the train pulling away with Ramon still on it while he shouts angry, inaudible words at Jerry through the glass.
As many other viewers did, I laughed. But there was also a twinge in my heart because, well, I was Ramon. I had been there before. I had made a great effort to be a close friend to others who simply weren’t interested. I had tried and was rejected. Thus, over the span of my adult life, I found myself believing there was something wrong with me.
We Aren’t Friends, We’re School Buddies
I made a new friend in my freshman year of high school who had study hall with me. It wasn’t long before I learned that she enjoyed journaling and writing poetry as much as I did, and we would exchange our journals for each other to read. I learned about the boy she had a crush on, and she learned about my first boyfriend. I learned about all the friends she had back home in Puerto Rico, and she learned about my struggles with my siblings.
For the next four years of high school, we would quietly bond over our writing, but for some reason, we never spent time together after school. Like her, I had other friends I was more adventurous with, friends I would go shopping with and to concerts with, friends whose houses I’d frequent. Occasionally, I invited her to hang out with us, but she always shyly declined. I wasn’t one to push, so I didn’t. I just let her know she was always welcome.
Finally, a few weeks before graduation, we started reminiscing about the last four years. “You know,” I told her, feeling sentimental. “I consider you one of my best friends. I hope we can keep in touch after we graduate.” I remembered all the secrets I’ve told her, all the quiet, comforting study periods and gym class jogs we shared. I smiled at her.
At this, she burst into laughter so loud, I recoiled. She was always so polite and quiet that this eruption seemed out of character for her; it was that funny.
“We aren’t best friends,” she laughed. “We’re school buddies.”
For some reason, I laughed too. But the embarrassment brewed. It bubbled in my heart and boiled over. My face reddened. I had placed so much importance on the term best friend, like so many girls in high school do, and felt upset that she hadn’t considered me hers.
I did end up seeing her again after graduation. It was the Fourth of July and she had brought me tres leches cake — a delicious, milk-soaked dessert from Puerto Rico. She had written about it in her journal once and I told her I never tried it. I thought this was her way of apologizing for what she had said. Maybe, I thought, we could be proper friends now.
I was wrong. Gradually, she stopped liking my social media posts. She would take longer to reply to my messages. Finally, she unfriended me altogether, and we haven’t spoken since.
Here’s The Problem
Like Ramon, I felt like I tried my hardest to be an eager, available friend, and was hurt when I was shut down. Over the next few years, I would see the same thing happen again with women and men. My experience with my high school friend loomed like an ominous cloud overhead.
One day, I was lamenting about the complexities of forming new adult friendships with a friend when he said something I would never forget.
“Here’s the problem,” he told me, after listening to my lengthy, failed-friendships recap. “You’re not built for friendship.”
His words felt like a punch to the gut. English wasn’t his first language, and for this reason, I felt he was even more blunt with his speech. I couldn’t shake the impact.
I was silent for a moment, wondering why he specifically chose the word “built,” like I was a machine. I imagined a celestial being putting me together piece by piece, joining shiny chrome and metal bolts. Then They, whoever They was, stuffed me into a box and stuck a label on that read NOT FOR FRIENDSHIP.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I spat.
Immediately sensing my anger, he put a hand on my knee. “What I mean is,” gentler this time, “you are made for romance. For deeper things.”
I frowned. I was stunned, silent, my mouth agape.
“True friendship isn’t deep?”
He struggled to clarify. “No one wants to be your friend,” he explained. “Everyone wants more. And when they can’t have more, they’d rather have nothing.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Even my straight girlfriends? Even the girl from high school?”
He nodded. “In a way, even them.”
“And you, too, then.” This came out like a grenade; it landed with a bang. I folded my arms, leaned back in my seat. I didn’t know this at the time, but we would only stay friends for a few more months. We’d fight over this very thing.
He laughed, never one to hide the truth. “Yes. Even me, too.”
The Case Against Friendship
I know now that his opinion was only one way of looking at my situation of many, but at the time, I couldn’t decide if his statement was cynical, naive, or accurate. Either way, I thought it might be true.
As ridiculous as it seems, after failing to make and keep new friends throughout my college years, I thought friendship maybe wasn’t for me. While I did remain in contact with a couple friends from high school, it felt like new friends were only interested in me if they were getting something from me. If they weren’t, they didn’t bother with keeping in touch or spending time with me.
With men, there was rarely a middle ground; there was rarely an in-between. After a few polite weeks of normal, casual conversation, there was a shift to an all-or-nothing attitude. Being in a serious relationship at the time, I would shut these advances down quickly, and the men would oftentimes disappear cold turkey.
With women, they would humor me with a friendly conversation but then quietly distance themselves. They would often express their eagerness to hang out but then cancel on me. They would never say hello first, but only after I did.
For these reasons, it often felt like so few people saw the value a solid friendship with me could bring, and that broke my heart. The idea that you could have someone in your life to share your experiences with, spend quality time with, and support — without the prize of romance — seemed like something so beautiful and sincere, it was almost too good to be true.
In Defense of Jerry Seinfeld
It took years for me to realize that maybe it wasn’t always me after all. Maybe, like Ramon, the people I was trying so desperately to be friends with just weren’t meant for me.
Maybe, like Jerry, some people rejected me simply because they already had a close circle of friends they loved. Maybe they weren’t looking to add anyone else to the equation and change the beautiful thing they already had going for them.
Maybe being friends with me was simply something they couldn’t handle. As adults, sometimes it’s challenging to prioritize friendships when you have a demanding career or a family that needs your attention. This doesn’t mean I’m not good enough. This simply means that maybe they can’t juggle it all, and that’s okay. Maybe there just isn’t enough time and space for me in their brain because they have so many other things going on.
Or maybe, in the case of my high school buddy, they simply weren’t feeling it as strongly as I was. Maybe my personality or lifestyle didn’t fit theirs and they couldn’t relate to me. This doesn’t mean I’m not built for any friendship. This just means I haven’t found the right one.
Maybe Jerry Seinfeld really couldn’t handle more than three friends at a time, and that wasn’t Ramon’s fault at all. Maybe Ramon wasn’t too annoying, or maybe he wasn’t too eager. Maybe Ramon was a perfectly nice friend, but Jerry just wasn’t interested. Maybe all Ramon has to do now is be patient, believe in himself, and find someone else.
