I was in Paris last week for a party to celebrate the wedding anniversary of old friends. I know that’s a polarizing sentence to read. People hear “Paris,” and they quickly feel as though they need to have an opinion. Sometimes it’s: Paris? In June? With all of those tourists? And sometimes it’s: Lotta snobby, rude waiters, if you ask me. And sometimes you have to brace yourself for a geopolitical rant. Paris, for a lot of people, is not a neutral location.
So let me clarify: my friends live in Paris — they have for decades — and they got married in the American Cathedral there, and this seemed like a great way to get everyone back together for one more party. Which it was. Part of the joy of having old friends is that you get to see them in the process of becoming old — they are old, old friends, at this point. And the other joy is that when you recreate a wedding guest list from decades ago, you get to catch up with a lot of people you don’t see that often. Sometimes, there’s a reason for that.
“So, you’re really steering into this religious thing,” a party guest said to me, while we were each bringing the other up to date on the events of the intervening years. He had spent a few minutes telling me about his children and a good many more minutes making sure I knew how incredibly rich he had become. When he was certain that his exact net worth was clear to me, he said, “I hear that you’re becoming an Episcopal priest? What’s that about?” And then, to soften the tone, he added: “I mean, like, good for you, if that’s what you’re into, great.” And then, to harden the tone back, he added: “I just never saw you as very, you know, priest-y.”
Which is understandable. I hope that I’m becoming more “priest-y” all the time — still a lot of hurdles to jump before I get there, I’m sure — but I explained that I had felt a call a few years ago to make some changes in my life and had just completed my second year in the Master of Divinity program at Princeton Theological Seminary, with one year to go. I told them that I was enjoying the things I was studying and reading in school, and that I was going to spend a few days in a religious community in France after I left Paris. And that was when he remarked that I was “really steering into this religious thing.”
A life change like this, I’ve discovered, can be a polarizing thing to announce to old friends. There are some things that people cannot hear without having an immediate, and sometimes defensive, reaction. For instance, whenever one of my friends announces that he has stopped drinking — and at my age, that’s a non-trivial number — I can’t help but think there’s some subtle disapproval in there at me and at my own cocktail habits. “What are you trying to say? That I drink too much?” I always want to loudly demand. Of course, people give up drinking for a lot of complicated reasons, but no one stops drinking just to deliver a dig at an old friend.
MAGAZINE: IT’S TIME TO DRESS FOR DINNER AGAIN
That, I think, was what was going through the mind of my now-impossibly rich friend. He had nearly run out of breath describing the contours of his wealth, which included a summer house on the beach and a regular house on 10th Street in Manhattan between 5th and 6th Avenues, household staff, and (something I’ve learned is popular with the extremely rich) weird dietary rules. And then here I come with my annoying God business — the seminary, the religious retreat, the irritating way I just let him go on and on about money and stuff — and, well, I get it. Becoming a priest, I have discovered, is not a neutral thing to do.
On the other hand, whenever a friend of mine gives up booze, I do find myself drinking a lot less, at least for a month or so. And that’s another great benefit to having old friends: they can inspire you to be a little more moderate with the cocktails, and a little less jerky at parties.
Rob Long is a television writer and producer, including as a screenwriter and executive producer on Cheers, and the co-founder of Ricochet.com.