I thought when we moved into a 46-story high rise, we would instantly meet new people. Soon we'd be having dinner parties with our neighbors, joking about our college days and instantly become "besties." I thought I'd be going to lunch with the girls on my floor and talking about the funny quirks of our husbands or boyfriends. I thought our floor would be much like my dorm floor, and we'd all keep our doors open and jam to some N'Sync.
Sadly, after nearly a year here, I can say my only true friend is our doorman, Fred. He's so sweet! Other than that, nothing.
Yesterday I realized our neighbor, whom we share a patio wall with, was moving out. I saw her in the hallway, and this was the extent of our conversation...
Me: "Oh, so you're moving out?"
That was it. I couldn't even say we'd miss her, because that wouldn't be the truth. I don't even know her name. Sadly, I know her Puggle is named Oliver, but that's about it. If you put our neighbors and their dogs in a line-up, I'd know more of the dogs than the humans.
The weird thing is, I hardly ever seen anyone on our floor. This seems crazy to me, because we all have dogs, and are therefore taking them out throughout the day and night. I didn't even know our neighbors right across the hall had moved out until one day I saw a Golden Retriever coming out of the apartment instead of a Weimaraner. I didn't even recognize his owners! Pathetic.
The next test will be in a couple of months when we move into more of a neighborhood in Lincoln Park. If I don't make friends with our neighbors there, I'll know it must be my social skills.
And to our doorman Fred: I really will miss you.