I’d been friends with “Mark” and “David” for years when Mark texted to let me know his marriage to David was over. Five minutes later, David texted the same thing about Mark.
The messages were so similar and close together that at first I assumed they’d collaborated on this. But then Mark texted, “Please don’t tell David I told you,” followed by David’s, “Don’t tell Mark I said anything.” Pretty soon, their mutual friends were texting each other too. It quickly became evident to us that this couple did not have a strategy for telling friends about their divorce, or how to divide us up.
It also quickly became clear that they did indeed mean to take sole custody of some of us. We’d all known Mark and David as a couple for years, and now each wanted exclusive loyalty from individual friends. Mark “quit social media” but somehow knew which friends were still following David. When I was out with David, he would say things like, “I would never want you to pick sides, but you should hear the things Mark said about that blunt bob haircut you tried in 2017.” So instead of doing what you’re supposed to do when a friend divorces (i.e., lend support), we all started backing away. Nobody wanted to be forced to pick between them. Although frankly, fuck Mark, that bob was cute and I pulled it off.
Fortunately this kind of “dividing of friend assets” would never be a problem in my own marriage, as my husband and I simply don’t share friends. He’s tried to get me to hang out with his buddies and to get to know mine, but I just won’t put the effort in. Because I know better. In the immortal words of The Offspring: you gotta keep ’em separated.
I wasn’t always like this. At one time, I imagined getting married as a doubling of my social life. Because I am deeply unoriginal, I pictured my future spouse’s pals as the wacky gang of friends from a British comedy where everybody is impossibly close, hangs out nonstop, and is always affectionately giving each other “the business.” This group of witty, good-looking-for-Europe misfits would take an instant shine to me. His male friends would say things like, “Where have you been keeping her?” and his female friends would gleefully shit-talk the glum procession of homely-but-evil she-losers who came before. We’d all wear Fair Isle sweaters and drink wine from those beveled Anthropologie juice glasses (I was single for a long time—I had time to get elaborate.)
Then I actually got married and, if anything, I have fewer friends than I did when I was single. And while we can probably blame “getting older,” “having multiple kids,” and “being generally unlikable” for some of that, the truth is I now prefer having no social overlap with my husband.
My husband and I have no couple friends, no vacation buddies, no pickleball group. Perhaps the closest thing we have to a “mutual” is the dashing old homosexual neighbor we chat with together in our driveway a few times a year, then argue over who he likes better (it’s me). When my husband’s high school friends or old roommate visit town, I kiss him goodbye and tell him to stay out as late as he wants. Of course, I know his closest confidantes and he knows mine. We just don’t “hang out” with them together. Ever. And that’s the way I like it.
The truth I’ve discovered about marriage only after getting married is marriage is long. It’s my belief that you should have separate social lives for the same reason you should have separate checking accounts: privacy, convenience, and ease of dividing up in case things don’t work out. The least I can do in that period of time is to make it as pleasant for both of us as possible. Which, for us, means having a lot of our good times without each other.
If it seems pessimistic to not get to know the wonderful people the person I love loves, just because we might one day get a divorce, may I counter: please grow up. Furthermore, in this day and age, doesn’t everybody need a little more space from their partner? If you’re in a long-term relationship in 2023, you probably have spent an awful lot of time in a confined area together. We’re all working at home more, eating at home more, watching more things in our beds instead of at a movie theater, and just generally not leaving the house (which is probably a cramped apartment because of the economic downturn and the housing shortage). The fact is, we need time away from the person we’re doing all this extra staying in with.
My husband is not with me on this. He thinks it’s weird that we don’t go out with other couples or vacation with old friends together. I think that sounds absolutely awful. Personally, I’m 40, and I’ve curated a small group of people who I can tolerate who can also tolerate me. As we are all probably tired of hearing, the world seems bad now pretty much all of the time, and my brain is tired from whipsawing back and forth between disassociating and engaging. Basically: I just need to be around people I know I can be depressing and mildly offensive with.
And no matter how much my husband’s buddy might gamely include me in their conversation, what the two of them really want to talk about is the stuff they’d get right into if I weren’t there. In my husband’s case, Philadelphia sports and Pearl Jam, and sorry, but I’d rather die. Just as I, with my friends, want to talk about seasonal allergies and which acquaintance’s open marriage is currently cratering the hardest. Life is too hard and busy to waste social time on people with whom you can’t be yourself. With new friends, or ones I’m not very close to, I am limited to chirping brainlessly about the weather or various freeway closures. If you make me sit down and split an appetizer with someone I do not have a rich shared history with, I will exhaust myself trying to sparkle like a child actor trying to help mom make rent.
And I’m sorry but we all know that’s what couple dates are like. You either have to come up with a conversational topic that will engage all four people (impossible) or break off into awkward pairs, talking over each other diagonally while casting about for the moment you can drag your spouse back into the conversation: “We were JUST talking about how we’re tired of burrata. Weren’t we?” Who is that fun for?
This isn’t to say my husband isn’t friends with some delightful people. I’ve spent time with some of them and thought, “Oh my god, she’s great, it would be a blast to have drinks with her.” But I’ve also thought, “I should really learn Italian.” I don’t have the time or drive to do either thing.
Everybody I know is exhausted from trying to balance work and health and family and activism and keeping up with news and on and on and on. We’re all lucky if we can squeeze a happy hour with Crazy Fun Monica from Work in there without having to stop and think, “I should see what my wife’s doing.” I can almost guarantee that your wife would rather enjoy having the couch to themselves.
I try to give as much love and attention as I possibly can to my spouse and family. But I have like 90 minutes a week that are just “mine.” And if not with my lovely husband, I’d like to spend those minutes drinking one glass of wine too many with women in their late 30s who have opinions about Glenn Powell’s ass while we annoy the cranky bartender. There’s just some stuff you can’t get at home.
Julieanne Smolinski is a Los Angeles–based TV writer
