A Story of Lifelong Friendship Reinvigorated With an In-Person Visit
And why text messages are just simply not enough
Yesterday, for the first time in over two years, I hugged my closest, dearest, lifelong friend. I let go, looked at her — those big eyes! long lashes! porcelain skin! inimitably tousled hair, which she often chronicles in Instagram posts called “whokhairs.”
I flew to Boston to see this friend (her name is Suzy), but the reason was as tearful and sad as when we saw each other last: two years ago, at her dad’s funeral on Cape Cod. Her dad was my godfather, a man who, for the duration of my youth, was an omnipotent protector: “If you’re mean to me,” I used to say, “my godfather is going to squish you like a pea.” Now, Suzy’s mom — my godmother, a second mom to me for most of my youth — was unwell. Ever the organizational wizard and caretaker, Suzy is there to help her mom move to memory care.
I expected to fall to pieces when I laid eyes on my “old pal.” But when the car pulled in the driveway and Suzy opened the back door, I couldn’t get out fast enough. My eyes didn’t well; my heart filled. I jumped out of the car while it was still practically moving; dropped my bags and ran up the brick stairway. To reach my arms up high and wrap them around my pal felt indescribably uplifting!
But why? Suzy and I talk all the time! Roughly 3,000 times a day, in multiple forms. And when I say “talk,” I mean text, mostly. Our days are punctuated by communication—we trade articles, complain about the weather, swap screenshots of random/unwanted texts, etc. When we talk on the phone, it’s for an hour and feels more like hanging out.
Other than living in sunny cities (Miami and LA), our lives couldn’t be more different. Suzy is single, works in tech in LA, knits, grinds her own coffee beans — by hand — and cringes at mass consumption; I’m a mom of two boys who grabs a tall-boy caffeinated seltzer every morning.
And yet — despite our wildly divergent opinions and daily routines, Suzy is like my own personal “Dear Abby.” If my correspondence were a quilt, the Suzy pieces would be stitched in Teflon. (She would prefer a knitted blanket — did I mention she knits?) Everything from her e-mail signature (“ex oh”) to her quips about a friend (“insufferable — perhaps you’ve outgrown them”) are comforting.
In the car ride from the airport, I had listened to a podcast that discussed the science behind the explosion of love occasioned by mine and Suzy’s hug. The podcast was called Ten Laws by Trevor Oswalt, the musician behind East Forest. He was interviewing Dr. Julie Holland, a psychiatrist and author of the books Moody Bitches and Weekends at Bellevue.
“Our devices give you this synthetic connection,” Holland said to Oswald. I turned up the volume, thinking of my friend — and all my friends, who I text with regularly.
“This false sense that you are connected to your friends on Facebook is not quite what your body needs,” she continued.
“Your brain sort of feels connected, you’re going back and forth, but it is not the true, deep connection if it were skin to skin, eye to eye, if you’re smelling someone’s pheromones. There are things you don’t get if you are having a mediated experience through a screen — things that you do get when you’re in person.”
Holland told another tale of a spontaneous conversation with her neighbor about running and knee pain. Now, we may know our friends and family members inside and out, but the conversations that we have over text are entirely different. And, forgive me if I’m the only person who didn’t know this, but there are actually two hormonal reasons for that. I knew the word pheromones, but to be honest I was only recently reminded of it when I stumbled upon a calming dog collar the other day at PetCo.
Later that day, at the kitchen table with Suzy, I tried to recount the podcast. Suzy was sick of hearing about how much I love East Forest and don’t love psychiatrists. I switched gears.
“There’s a New Yorker article about the texting,” I said, standing at the kitchen island, blowing on a cup of tea. “It’s hilarious! I have to find it.” I grabbed my phone. My Google search revealed about 2.1 million hits regarding “New Yorker” and “text” none of which were the ones I wanted. I tried my app—lost password.
“It’s about people trying to make plans, and how much back and forth there is — but never any plans.”
“Didn’t you send it to me?” Suzy said, one eyebrow raised. “I think it was in New York mag.”
Maybe, I said, putting down my phone. Even though screens punctuated our conversation, the experience would’ve been wholly different over text. We wouldn’t have talked about the tea, nor bonded over liking Manuka honey, nor how many milligrams methylglyoxal per kg is ideal in said honey. (We actually didn’t discuss the MCGs, because we were busy trying to find the article.)
Heading back to the airport the next day, I tucked my phone in my bag the second I got in the car. My heart felt warm and full, except to say that I wish I couldn’ve stayed longer. I was surprised at how this visit — which I’d expected to be so sad — left me feeling so uplifted. Seeing my friend, my godmother, and my friend’s brother brought such a warm sentiment that has stayed with me ever since.
I also felt a new resolve. Until I decide otherwise, I will avoid solely making plans and communicating via text. Too much gets lost in translation. Physical contact is too important.
For now, I am going to aim for pheromones. And, as I scribbled in giant blue letters across two journal pages the other night, I will never not see my best friend in person for two years again.
Caroline Callahan Janson is a freelance writer based in Miami, Florida. She is a former staffer at GQ Magazine and Departures, and has written for Condé Nast Traveler, New York Magazine, and the Palm Beach Daily News, among others. She is currently at work on a début middle-grade novel.
