Print friendly
Let’s start with the moment I realized I was already a loser, which was just after I was more or less told that I was destined to become one.
I’d been summoned to an editor’s office at the Globe Magazine with the old “We have a story we think you’d be perfect for.” This is how editors talk when they’re about to con you into doing something you don’t want to do.
Here was the pitch: We want you to write about how middle-aged men have no friends.
Excuse me? I have plenty of friends. Are you calling me a loser? You are.
The editor told me there was all sorts of evidence out there about how men, as they age, let their close friendships lapse, and that that fact can cause all sorts of problems and have a terrible impact on their health.
I told the editor I’d think about it. This is how reporters talk when they’re trying to get out of something they don’t want to do.
As I walked back to my desk in the newsroom — a distance of maybe 100 yards — I quickly took stock of my life to try to prove to myself that I was not, in fact, perfect for this story.
First of all, there was my buddy Mark. We went to high school together, and I still talk to him all the time, and we hang out all the . . . Wait, how often do we actually hang out? Maybe four or five times a year?
And then there was my other best friend from high school, Rory, and . . . I genuinely could not remember the last time I’d seen him. Had it already been a year? Entirely possible.
There were all those other good friends who feel as if they’re still in my lives because we keep tabs on one another via social media, but as I ran down the list of those I’d consider real, true, lifelong friends, I realized that it had been years since I’d seen many of them, even decades for a few. Continue reading
- Billy Baker is a feature writer for the Boston Globe’s metro section.
Related Posts:
News category: Analysis and Comment.
