Waitlisted

Tamie and I have been married for over three decades, which is why it surprised me when she asked if I’d like to share my phone number with a neighbor who’d recently inquired about walking our dogs together.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Yes. He’s very friendly, and I think he’d be good company for you on days I can’t go.”

She means well but sometimes forgets that our social circles are governed by vastly different entrance policies. Mine, for example, requires years of cautious observation to determine how much chit-chat an individual requires on long hikes, which bicycle grouppos they use, and whether they are capable AND willing to set up a Z-pulley system to extract me from a crevasse during an alpine blizzard—even if they already have access to the car keys.

In contrast, Tamie’s policy consists of a giant WELCOME! sign. In the last week alone, she’s become best friends with her new yoga teacher, the produce guy at Costco who helped her find a good watermelon, and ChatGPT.

“I already have enough friends,” I said.

She looked skeptical. “And how many is that?”

“Two.”

Her disappointment was palpable.

“He’s welcome to join the waiting list,” I offered. “There might be some spots on the bench opening up soon.” This wasn’t true—I have a very solid set of backup friends—but didn’t want to seem totally unreasonable.

“Would it help if his name was Scott?” she asked, pointedly.

This was an intentional dig since she knows both my friends are Scotts. For the record, this isn’t a requirement of the position. In fact, my bench consists of people who are mostly not named Scott. It’s just a nice coincidence. I’m notoriously bad with names, so it really simplifies my life. If I need to borrow a pedal wrench, for example, I call Scott; but if I suddenly need to climb a stratovolcano, I call Scott. And if I ever end up in jail and need bail money, Tamie will call Scott (the one who isn’t in there with me).

“How about this,” I said. “Whenever I’m out walking the dog AND you’re not with me AND the neighbor happens to be out walking his dog AND I’m not on the phone OR listening to a podcast OR an audiobook OR an eighties playlist, I will cordially nod my head and say something like, ‘Hey, guy.’”

Because she’s known me for over three decades, Tamie waited.

“BUT ONLY if he’s on the other side of the road.”

Tamie waited, still.

“AND he’s headed in the other direction.”

Tamie sighed. “Never mind. You should just focus on keeping the friends you have.”

“Good idea,” I said. “It’d be a shame to have to let one of them go. Especially Scott.”