I met Nathalie at the gym. We bonded over her “God is good” shirt and quickly shared stories of how life had dealt us both some crappy cards, but prayer got us through. Nathalie was tall and beautiful, and she quite literally lit up every room she walked into. People, including me, loved to be around her.
Ours started as a gym-only friendship. We would chat for a few minutes before and after our boxing class. I welcomed the conversation and enjoyed the companionship.
Then, it all changed with three dreaded words: “What’s your number?” She wanted to shoot me a text over the weekend. My thoughts raced: What? Why? What is happening over the weekend that we need to text about? Noooooooo, Nathalie, please don’t ruin this good thing we have going!
I didn’t want to give her my number. I wasn’t looking for a texting buddy or coffee partner. And I most definitely was not looking for someone to make gym plans with either. I liked coming and going as I pleased. I wanted to politely tell Nathalie, “Oh, sorry, but I don’t give my number out.” I thought about saying those words, but I knew they would be perceived as rude. And being rude to my new gym friend would make coming to the gym really complicated and awkward. I felt trapped — so I caved.
“Sounds great!” I said, giving her my number and smiling through my resentment. “Talk to you this weekend.”
I tried with Nathalie. I really did. I wanted to be the type of woman who made friends and liked it. The kind of woman who was selfless and put others first, who felt energized by coffee dates and group texts and girls’ nights out. So I pretended to be her.
“I am having a book club on Tuesday night, you should come,” Nathalie said in a post-gym conversation. I had no plans that night and although my instinct was to scream “No!” and run the other way, I thought of the woman I wanted to be. “That sounds great,” I said, “Count me in.”