You Gotta Have Friends (Or Do You?)

Some of my best friends are people I've never met.

They live as near as Oklahoma and as far as overseas. We got to know each other through their weblogs and mine; we stay in touch by e-mail and instant messenger.

These virtual relationships are perfect for an introvert like me who would rather stay home than go out most Friday nights.

I've never been as social as some or sought out the popularity my parents wanted for me. I've always had one best friend, with several "less-best" friends circling in the same orbit.

There was Julie in elementary school, Stacy in middle school and Sandy in high school. There were others in college and graduate school, during which I met my best best friend: My husband.

And then came Nancy.

I met Nancy when I was 30. We worked together at a TV station, and within a few months -- coincidentally -- we were both pregnant. She was my first mom friend.

Once our children were born, they became each other's first friends. Our husbands liked each other, and the bond between our families was permanently sealed. We shared Sundays, holidays and vacations. When Nancy's family moved north several years later, we were all devastated.

And yet we stayed close. We met at the beach during the summer and in Washington, D.C., for New Year's. We saw each other twice a year, then once a year after Nancy had a second daughter. When my family moved further south, those visits ended.

But our friendship continues. We e-mail constantly, talk occasionally and always appreciate what we've shared.

Our friendship has made me picky. Once you've had the best, why settle for the rest?

We tried spending time with other families, but there was always something wrong: We didn't like one of the grown-ups or Colter didn't like the kids. And it was never easy or predictable.

Superficial similarities did not necessarily make a good match. We could have kids the same age, husbands who primarily stay at home, the same religion, but if the chemistry was missing the conversation fizzled.

We kept trying, even though there were many nights we spent with friends when I wished we'd stayed home instead.

Part of the problem is that I hate large groups. I genuinely like a lot of people, just not all at once.

And I'm upset by even the mild social rejection of talking to someone while she looks around the room for the next partner on her verbal dance card. Friends are a barometer of how we measure up, and those darting eyes make me feel very small.

I've learned that friends are like cars; I prefer classics, not the latest model.

Friendships should be timeless and constant, and I'm envious of people who have lifelong friends they've known since kindergarten. But I also feel suspicious -- Haven't they changed? Haven't their needs changed?

People can grow apart and they can grow together. Time and space sometimes have little to do with the direction relationships take. I feel distant from some people I see regularly and close to old friends I haven't seen in years.

A few months ago, I heard from a high school friend who moved to Israel when we graduated. We wrote long letters, as I had with his older sister before him, and saw each other summers. Then, we lost touch. For a decade or so. When I recently received an e-mail from him, I immediately responded and we instantly reconnected over our French teacher, the Grateful Dead and family.

Friends can be like souvenirs from different lives, reminding us of milestones and other memorable moments.

Most of my milestones would have appeared unremarkable to anyone looking in from the outside, though. Few were as public or as shared as graduations. They were happening inside me, invisible to others.

Friendship is the process of revealing ourselves to each other, and sometimes -- for reasons we can't always explain -- we aren't ready or willing to do that. Which is one reason unrequited friendships are so painful.

When I look back on some periods of my life, I see that I was just getting to know myself, not yet able to share with others what I was learning.

The only friend I still have from those years of my life is me. I met myself then and there. I learned to keep myself company.

I see my son doing the same. The older he grows, the more he enjoys his own company, and the stronger the "I" in "I like you" becomes, which makes him more selective about friends.

He is learning that to have a friend you must first be a friend. And to be a good friend to others, you must first be a good friend to yourself.

Julie Moos is a thirtysomething who lives with her husband and son. Her column appears every other Thursday. To read more of her thoughts, visit MomInTheMirror.com.