Notebook: Failing my friends
By Greg Campbell
gcampbell@fortcollinsnow.com
1:05 a.m. MT Apr 30, 2008
I figured out a few weeks ago that I average about 65 hours of work per week when you calculate the early-morning catch-up on emails, the late nights editing and writing, and the weekends I spend brainstorming and nurturing along other projects that don’t fit into a 9-to-5 schedule rabid with meetings, teleconferences, webinars and what-have-you. In fact, last weekend was the first in about 11 weeks I’ve had both Saturday and Sunday free for ... well, I’m not sure what for. What do people do on the weekends anyway if they’re not sitting in the Bean Cycle for six hours hunched over a laptop?
What they do, I found, is be good friends to the important people in their lives, something I discovered to my horror that I’ve failed miserably at in my flirtation with workaholism. When I finally surfaced long enough from my work load to blink a few times and take the measure of my social landscape like some Rip Van Winkle, I found that my once bountiful field of friends, family and associates had turned barren. It wasn’t their fault—they just went on living their lives. It was my fault ... like Van Winkle, it was like I wandered into the hills without a word to anyone and fell asleep for 20 years.
Taking stock of everyone I’d let fall to the wayside has been painful. There’s my old rock-climbing partner who had moved to Texas long ago, but who relocated in recent years to Fort Collins. I’ve seen him maybe three times since 2004 even though he was once one of my closest compatriots, and despite my very lame promises to call soon and have him over for dinner or drinks. There’s my close dear friends who had a son nine months ago ... I only just met him last weekend, with a mix of emotions that perfectly blended my joy for the couple with my shame at not having done it sooner. I have in-laws in Fort Collins I haven’t seen or spoken to in months, and an entire array of chums, buddies, pals and amigos who I only see if I’m lucky enough to bump into them on the streets.
My excuses for social celibacy are plentiful—primarily, I’m too freaking tired to make the effort. Given a free hour or so, I’m far more inclined to kidnap my wife and ferret her off to a dark barstool where we can catch up with one another or, if that’s not possible, fall asleep on the couch with the PGA tournament on in the background.
Is this any way to live? The answer—“Hells no”—came to me a few weekends ago while celebrating another friend’s 50th birthday. Actually, the term “celebrating” is too benign because it was a full-blown, multi-day, ambush-laden gala that involved several cakes, a half-dozen feasts, impromptu sing-alongs, a surprise house concert and a cornucopia of meaningful gifts given out at a wide spectrum of venues, including local restaurants, area homes and a golf course. It was a stellar blow-out, but eclipsing all of the above was the presence of a whole platoon of the guest-of-honor’s far-flung friends. They came from across the country in droves, toting guitars, children, expensive cigars and one gut-splitting trip down memory lane after another. Like me, the guest of honor had long ago fallen out of touch with many of these guys, but it was a testament to their strength as friends that it only took a few phone calls and (collectively) a few thousand dollars in airfare for them to fly out for a weekend of indulgent revelry and reminiscence.
My friend—I’m not naming him because he’s an introvert to begin with and he’s been through enough artery-blowing surprises in the full glare of the limelight to last him another 50 years—pegged the significance of the long celebration in a very poetic and insightful way. He said that at the beginning of the seemingly endless fete, he considered it to be about the past, about revisiting old memories and shared experiences with a group of people who once had everything in common, but who’ve moved on with their families, their careers and their lives. But he said that he realized as it went on that it was much more about the future, about having a chance to correct the sins of neglect and remember why all those people were “friends” in the first place. At the end of it all, it served as a touching reminder of what life is supposed to be all about: surrounding yourself with people you love, and who love you.
It sounds hokey, granted. But I was gripped with the fearful knowledge that if I keep my head buried in my laptop and continue failing to nurture my friendships that there will be no one for a surprise-party coordinator to summon when I turn 50. Maybe it’s a sign of premature middle age—I’m 37 and don’t plan on having my mid-life crisis for at least another 10 years—but for the first time I felt life slip on the great greased tracks of Meetings, Work Obligations and One More Email.
It was nice to be reminded before it was too late that the future isn’t about sending one more email, and your friends aren’t something from the past that you had to get out of your system before your career intervened.
I’m going to turn in my Blackberry while I still can.
