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I stepped out onto the street to allow the guy approaching me on the sidewalk 6 feet of safety, and said to him as he passed, “Were you able to see your grandchildren this weekend?” He stopped and kind of rolled his eyes above his checkered mask and said: “I don’t have any grandchildren. I don’t even have any children.” And then we both realized what had happened. I had mistaken him for someone else I knew.
So, there we were, two strangers keeping our distance but laughing together in the middle of Walnut Street in our Shadyside Pittsburgh neighborhood—sharing a rare humorous coronavirus event.
This has happened a couple of times since coronavirus restrictions started in March. Masks protect from infection but also make it more difficult to be friendly—and at a time when I really was trying to be friendly, maybe for the first time in my life.
I have always, more or less, been kind of a loner. I am a writer, so I spend many hours alone with a keyboard, monitor, and notepad. I interact with lots of people, interviewing and often accompanying them as they work or play. For some of my books, I’ve devoted years hanging out with my “subjects,” and although you do get to know them in a certain way, I am always at a distance, not allowing myself to get too close so that I can write what I see and not be impacted too much by fondness and familiarity.
This gradually carried over and affected my social life. For a long time, I didn’t care much. But then, half a dozen years ago, I turned 70. And during that period, I suffered more than a few personal losses. My two best friends died. And then my mother died. My girlfriend and I broke up after 10 years together. Suddenly, I realized I didn’t have much of a personal life anymore. At my age, I thought, it was going to be difficult to find new friends. I didn’t think I had the strength or interest to try.
During those next few years, I continued to write, but pretty much in isolation—not so different from the coronavirus isolation we are all experiencing today. Each birthday that passed after 70 weighed heavily. How many years did I have left? I didn’t want to continue to live the rest of my life with Law and Order reruns as one of my few amusements. And wine. Netflix.
I did research and began looking for optimistic viewpoints about aging and loneliness. People, I found in one study, are happiest at the beginnings and endings of their lives, and those with more positive attitudes about aging are less challenged by memory loss.
Gradually I forced myself to find a more friendly world. First, I tried to loosen up and not seem so intense and introspective. Little things. I began making eye contact when I took my daily walks. Instead of staring straight ahead, I might say, “Hello.” When I did that, sometimes they would say hello back. Then, sometimes, I would figure out something else to say, awkward or banal maybe, but it worked.
I began reaching out to strangers, or almost-strangers—restaurant workers, clerks at convenience stores. It was ... nice. Not that I had ever been not nice. But I became more open. I isolated distinctive things that I noticed about them, and I commented. New hairstyles, sharp boots, unique tattoos. In the past, I kept my observations to myself. Now I shared my admiration for their style and demeanor, and my efforts were appreciated. Next time I saw them, they reminded me that I had praised or, for that matter, just noticed them. Funny thing is, I soon discovered that people were noticing details about me as well. “Nice blazer,” they might say, or, “You got a haircut!”
Instead of drinking and eating alone, I popped into neighborhood restaurants that I knew more mature people might frequent and talked to customers who sat beside me, often also alone. I made some new friends and, in the process, rediscovered some old friends with whom I had not in a while been in touch.
I felt a change in myself physically. I could sense it in how I walked; my body language was more open. No longer did I hunch and glare. And I wasn’t rushing around so much; I learned to stroll. I was smiling more often, naturally and easily. I may sound like I am going overboard about all of this, such small things to exult about, but believe me, it was a revelation and a relief. Sometimes, more often than not, talking with other people, especially somewhat spontaneously, out of the blue, cheered the heck out of me when I was down. And I noticed that my friendliness cheered other people, as well.
Then came the coronavirus. And this made it more difficult. Or, let’s say, more challenging. But I wasn’t going to give up, just because of a mask. And social distancing? It turned into kind of a game, as I walked Walnut, peering at everyone a bit more intensely, looking at their eyes, their hair, and even their clothes, wondering if I knew them or if I could maybe get to know them.
Like the guy I met with no grandchildren. We introduced ourselves that day and chatted a bit about what everybody was chatting about these days, life behind our masks. Then we went our separate ways. But I do see him out walking now on a pretty much regular basis. Turns out he is just about as old as I am. And we have a lot to talk about, even though we are standing 6 feet apart. Last time I saw him, he actually thanked me for reaching out to him, making a contact and connection. “Refreshing,” he said. “Helpful when you don’t have much of a family.” Even though I took him for someone else.
A version of this piece appears in The Washington Post.
