It was a Saturday night and I was sitting at my godmother’s marble breakfast bar, filling her in on the latest drama happening between myself and a group of ‘friends’. Whilst looking for Tupperware in her many cupboards, she listened intently to my recount, even gasping in the extra juicy parts of the story. I finished my story and looked to her for advice. She assured me that the drama would all be over soon.
“Don’t worry. You’re still young,” she told me, “you’ll find your real friends soon.”
It seemed like an insignificant moment; just your average ‘two women venting in a kitchen’ scenario, but what my godmother had said, stuck with me.
My godmother is one of my mum’s good friends from her younger years. From what my mum told me, they used to be quite sociable gals. And I have come to believe it because I have more aunties in my life that were mum’s friends from high school than I have blood related aunties.
Flash forward to me. A nineteen year old, second year student who has less close friends than the number of fingers on her hands. I’ve probably kept in contact with only two or three people from high school and my ‘inner circle’ of friends at the moment, consists of my family and my boyfriend.
I believed my godmother when she told me that the reason I hadn’t found my real friends yet was because I was still young. But now I’m nineteen. It’s that awkward age where you’re legally not a child anymore and you’re allowed to do adult things like drink and pay taxes, but no one really considers you as a proper adult. Surely, at nineteen, I’m at the age where I should be able to form proper friendships; friendships that would result in regular visits twenty years from now, friendships that would mean godparents and aunties for my kids, friendships that are more than just befriending people in tutorials so they can send me notes when I’m not in class.
Mum has always told me that I’m a late bloomer; puberty didn’t hit me until well into high school, I didn’t kiss a boy until I was seventeen and three quarters, and at a tiny 5”4’, I’m ninety per cent sure I still haven’t gone through whatever growth spurt I was supposed to go through as a child. Maybe making friends would take me a while as well.
It was only recently that I realised I’ve been looking at this the wrong way. Friendship doesn’t have rules. There is no magic age number that determines when you can and can’t make friends. Now in saying that, I’d rather not wait until I’m seventy-something to start making friends, but there’s always time.
So sure, if I magically fell pregnant I might have some serious thinking to do about godparents but does that mean that I don’t have ‘real’ friends? Probably not. Because who says that the people you befriend in tutes can’t be close friends. After all, sometimes they’re the only reason I can push through some of my tutes without falling asleep.
So here’s to real friends, no matter how close or how far they may be.