It used to be so simple. You could just go up to a classmate on the playground and ask to play tag — that’s all it took to start a new friendship when we were five. Even through our awkward phases in middle school and cliquey years in high school, making friends was still relatively straightforward. You could sit next to someone in class, practice the same sport or work on a group project together, and instantly you would have something in common. In college — though many people have to start from scratch — communal living spaces, awkward freshmen parties and late-night study sessions likewise force us to mingle until we emerge with a loose set of friends. But what about the “real world,” where there are no lab partners or sandboxes? How can you make friends when leading a life of comparative isolation?
This past fall, I took a crash course in adult friendships during my off term in Jackson Hole, Wyo. I worked part-time jobs at both an art gallery and an art advisory — a business that advises clients on how to buy and sell art and where to place art within their homes — and volunteered at the National Museum of Wildlife Art hanging art, researching artists and, most importantly, vacuuming carpets. Some days I had a coworker or two, while others I was completely alone with nothing but a computer to keep me company. Although my colleagues were lovely, conversation lagged, as we had almost no shared interests apart from our appreciation for fine art — even our favorite aesthetic movements varied greatly. Consequently, I spent most days typing in semi-silence for seven or so hours. I lived alone, had no family within driving distance and knew no one my age.
At first, I decided to embrace the isolation by holing up inside my house with a good book, a long list of movies and excessive FaceTime calls with my mom. Although this solution worked for the first month, I knew that if I wanted to save my social skills from an inevitable decline, I would have to branch out and take a leap — literally. Luckily, Jackson Hole has an unexpectedly robust performance art scene and, as a dancer, I decided to experiment with new styles. Enter: my weekly Cuban salsa classes. Every Thursday night from 6:15 p.m. to 7:30 p.m., you could find me dancing in a rueda — a circular group dance or “wheel” — at the Center for the Arts with approximately 15 middle-aged salsa aficionados. Despite mastering my cross-body lead in two short months, I still felt overwhelmingly alone.
My luck finally changed one day when I was volunteering at the NMWA’s library, sorting vintage Western art magazines. Although I began volunteering for the museum during my first week in Wyoming, it wasn’t until late October that I finally met another volunteer my age and excitedly struck up a conversation. In celebration of Halloween, we shared a frozen Kit Kat in the staff kitchen after our shift, and he told me about a group of volunteers that hung out fairly often. We exchanged numbers and, a week later, I scored an invite to a local hockey game with four 20-somethings. I never would have expected that watching grown men tackle each other while a stadium full of tipsy parents, gossiping teens and spirited children hopped up on Diet Coke cheered them on would be the most fun I’d had in weeks, but I was pleasantly surprised. Later, a group chat was made, plans were created and friendships were formed. Making these friendships might not have been as easy as challenging someone to race across the monkey bars during recess, but the result was certainly as rewarding.
Soon after, concerts, movie nights and even a triumphant trip to a bar for my 21st birthday filled my formerly monotonous daily routine with some much-needed spontaneity. The days seemed to pass by faster and faster, whereas for weeks I had practically watched the minutes tick by at an achingly slow pace, counting down until the second I stepped off the Dartmouth coach in Hanover. My off term no longer felt like a chore or something that I needed to boost my resume. Sure, the long work hours remained mundane, but I finally had plans to look forward to. Suddenly, I didn’t have enough time to read all my books or finish my to-watch list; before I knew it, I was on a plane back east.
My life in Hanover awaited me, and I was eager to catch up on all I had missed. I may gripe about the downsides of college on particularly cold or busy days when I have early morning drill and frost nips at my cheeks as I trek to Dartmouth Hall. Yet, now I think twice before I wish for a speedy graduation. The real world can wait another year now that I’ve taken off my rose-colored glasses and gone through the process of making adult friendships. My hard work in Jackson Hole eventually paid off, but I’m forever grateful to spend four years in the woods of New Hampshire with my best friends. I know that when the time comes, I’ll be ready to put on my cap and gown and cross the stage, confident in my ability to find community in the next stage of my life. But for now, I’m happy to sit in the library, waiting to see who I happen to run into next.
