As I stared at the two-page spread for the week in my daytimer, looking for an empty space in which to wedge yet another social engagement, I suddenly felt grateful. This time two years ago, I was incredibly lonely and hungry to find just one good friend I could spend time with.
My husband was neck-deep in teaching and mentoring students at the international school where we live and work. He spent all day talking to kids in the library office; laughing and joking with students and faculty during the 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. coffee breaks and noon lunches in the dining hall; carving out quiet time for developing his courses, and participating in evening book discussions or Friday night social activities.
Did I mention my husband is an off-the-scale introvert?
I, on the other hand, worked in a separate office down the street. I tried to ignore the creaking and groaning of the otherwise empty, three-story building while pumping out articles and newsletters for our magazine throughout the month. I could wear pretty much anything I wanted to the office -- even pajama pants or slightly low-cut tank tops, if I were so inclined -- because basically no one was going to see me all day. I played loud music or streamed argumentative news analysis programs to fill up the silence.
And of course, I am an extrovert.
Coming home in the evening was interesting. While I was ready, and even desperate, to talk and engage about the day, my husband was emotionally and physically exhausted. He would sequester himself over his computer or a book in our bedroom, relishing the silence, while I huddled on the living room couch listening to more music or news shows through headphones or went into the campus exercise room to workout alone while watching an online TV show.
This upside down routine lasted well over the first year after we relocated to Switzerland. There were social activities from time to time that I could participate in, but these mostly involved students who didn't quite know what to do with me since the rest of the time I wasn't around, and I was about 15 years older than they were.
Once, in a conversation about television, I tried to talk a student about a favorite show of mine, which she hadn't heard of.
"When was that on?" she asked.
"About 1992, I think."
"Well, I was only 1," she replied, looking a bit exasperated.
I went for bike rides alone, shopping alone, worked for the most part alone, and spent my evenings -- for all intents and purposes -- alone. My husband and I had date nights and coffee mornings. But my husband is not a woman, and I really missed female companionship with women my age, or couples who shared our same point in life -- young, adventuresome and childless.
It's been two years and now I have a different dilemma: I have too many friends. We have befriended three Swiss and German couples who have married children; we have befriended a young Swiss couple who, like us, don't have children, and share many of our interests. And I frequently share walks and bike rides with a woman who lives up the street and is eager for periodic adult time away from her two toddlers.
New staff have come to our workplaces, increasing our adult social activities. And the students are now dispersed across Europe instead of concentrated on campus, as the international school transitioned to an extension center model. As a result, my introvert husband spends less time talking during the day, which allows him more energy to give to me and our time together throughout the week.
I'm currently struggling to fit into my calendar a coffee date with a German girlfriend, a retired couple who have invited us to their flat for a barbecue, and a couple from the English class I teach who want to have us over for dinner. There are also weekend hiking and biking trips I've planned with workplace friends while our summer lingers.
I stare at my scribbled up calendar, think back over the past two years in this new culture, and am grateful for my new problem of having too many friends.
