The 2 a.m. Test

In my twenties, it was much more common to sit at a table and have lunch or dinner with friends. Now, in my forties, not so much. Maybe it's the result of changing over time — being somewhat introverted and liking my solitude, or having a slightly dystopian definition of what a friend is. Whatever the case, it has led to a decrease in the number of people I'd truly call friends.

I'm not going to belabor the point with several paragraphs on "what it means to be a friend," because to me it's simple: Can I call you at 2 a.m., and will you drop everything — short of neglecting your own family — to come help me? Will you have my back when it really matters, and will you be completely frank with me at all times?

If you don't fit those criteria, you're more likely an acquaintance than a friend. Maybe it's a high bar, but it is what it is. I've met many people who tell me they have "so many friends," and I always wonder — really? Do they truly have a dozen people who would drop everything at a moment's notice and come to their aid if they just asked?

Well, if that's the case, I'm definitely fucked. But I don't think so. The people I know who have that kind of tight community got it one way and one way only: they suffered together. Their bonds were forged at a point in their lives when they were all forced to endure multiple crucibles together. Those bonds — forged out of principles, sweat, tears, blood, and brutal emotional experiences — are a different breed of relationship, unlike any other, and at times even more different than the closest familial relationships. Because not even their own parents could fathom the experiences they shared.

And because that's the standard I hold, I'm under no illusions about my own number. I'd rather know the real count now than find out at 2 a.m. — when the call goes unanswered, and the excuses come in, and you realize you were more alone than you thought.