Esther Kustanowitz joins steps up the plate this week to slay a demon of her own!


Gather round, ye lads and lasses
Get thee off thine platonic asses;
Muster courage and bravery
To hear this tale of knavery.
Steel yourselves and gird your hearts
For myocardial stops and starts.
For a scarier tale did ne’er ascend
than that of Esther and the Zone of Friends.

I hope, dear readers, that you are of stalwart heart and of iron constitutions. For you will need all of your resolve and endless courage to listen, as I relay this haunting and frightful tale of a demon that haunts us all, and that must, for the good of the world and the kingdom of humankind, be drawn, quartered, eviscerated, scalped, mocked, derided and finally, utterly slain.

This demon is a monster, a serpentine beast that has existed since the beginning of time, when man first said to woman, back in the days of yore:

“Yea, verily tho’ I possess affection for you and take pleasure in your company, and thou thou hast repeatedly inspired unparalleled peals of laughter, scintillating conversation, and unrivaled support, I must warn thee that only friendship do I desire.” (Book of Mating, Chapter 2, verse 3)

The text above, painstakingly reconstructed from ancient Sumerian pottery shards and textual fragments, document the phenomenon in its most early days, but the point is the same today. We’ve all suffered it at one time or another, that mortifying moment when we realize that the object of our affections objects to our affections. It’s like standing at the foot of the most amazing roller coaster in the world, one you’ve waited for until you were tall (and brave) enough, and you get there and the ass-clown guarding it says “sorry, you must be this tall/petite/brawny/hot to ride this ride.” And then the ass-clown/tormentor in question hands you a ticket to a consolation prize ride like bumper cars or a carousel, plodding and reliable in its constancy, but utterly devoid of providing us with anything except a defined space for spinning our wheels.

Unfortunately, my knowledge of the Friend Zone is far from academic. I was the one who grew up with people telling me, “you’re not the kind of girl guys hook up with, you’re the kind they marry.” This was supposed to make me feel better about my childhood and teenage residence in the Friend Zone (and its close neighbor, the Nondating Zone).

Over the years, I’ve experimented with different methods of telling guys I like them. In high school, it was passed notes (“Do you like me? Yes or no—check one box”), through friends (“he told me he likes you, but only as a friend”), in yearbook ads, and notes in lockers. In college, it was in letters, and in person. Living in the big city, it was in emails, in instant messages and, if I couldn’t avoid it, in person. And in almost every case, I’ve gotten reaffirmations of my greatness, but with their parenthetical caveat counterparts, “you know I think you’re great (but not great enough for me)” “I don’t have to tell you how awesome you are (because we’re never going out again)” and “you’re going to make someone (else) very happy.” There’s been “I don’t deserve you (I deserve someone better),” “I like being your friend and I’m afraid that anything more will ruin our relationship (and this way I can have the emotional crutch of you while I look for someone more attractive)” and “you know we’re much better as friends (so I don’t have to tell you that I don’t think you’re all that pretty).”

Because I’ve not yet been the kind of girl guys do anything except talk about other girls with, what I remain—now in my platonic mid-thirties— is the semi-permanent Mayor of the Friend Zone. And as such, I have to tell you the truth: nine times out of ten, attempts to leave the Friend Zone will be thwarted by the fascist border police. Most times, the best you can hope for is a gentle nudging you back into the perimeter contained by the Friendship Fence.

A parting word, if I may, to those who guard the borders of Friendship: If a close friend tells you that he or she has special tingly feelings for you, take a moment to consider the statement before rejecting the visa application. Consider what it took, how much of an emotional buildup went into that declaration. Think about the courage that needed to be built up in order to decide to formulate the words in his or her head, and how many times the person didn’t tell you, hoping the feelings would go away. Only when those words become so strong that they could not be contained did they become actual vocalized proclamation, the venturing forth onto an unsteady emotional limb and attempting to cross the border. So do these friends a favor. Don’t treat their announcement as a joke, even to allay tension that you feel. Don’t laugh. If you don’t feel the same way, that’s fine. Or at least it will be fine, eventually. But at least respect us enough, as the friends you say you want us to remain, consider the proposal—for a minute, or five—before you delete us.

By putting ourselves on the line, we were hoping that silent torment would become reciprocated bliss, a slice of heaven. But getting shot down confines us to a different hell, where we are kept close, but not the way we’d like. There is no rejection that doesn’t feel like a rejection, no banishment that feels like anything but solitary confinement. And the Friend Zone inhibits us, confines us to this ring of fire, as it mocks us demonically. We must stand, united, as we declare our holy war against this inhumane zone.

As the ancient texts say:

Like me, you’re here, my zoned-out Friends;
Where romantic pain seems to have no end.
Your hearts are ripped, your trust’s been torn,
But into each generation, a defender is born.
You entrusted me to be your Mayor:
But from here on in, this Friend is the Slayer.

***
Esther D. Kustanowitz, a writer and performer, lives in Manhattan. She writes a semi-monthly singles column in the New York Jewish Week, and blogs at My Urban Kvetch, JDatersAnonymous, and Jewlicious.