Updated: Dec. 18, 2015 | Originally Published: Nov. 7, 2014
Throughout my twenties and early thirties, I often found myself in fleeting friendships with women who turned out to be just as unsuitable for me as some of the men I dated. The pattern was always similar: I would meet someone new who seemed fantastic. We would quickly bond over our shared interests, mistake that for true closeness, and label it “best friendship” before genuine intimacy had a chance to build.
I often overshared far too early, eager to offer enthusiastic support that didn’t match the depth of our relationship. Feeling a sense of importance when she reached out during crises—crises that seemed oddly frequent given our short history—was intoxicating. Yet, when I inevitably failed to meet her expectations during one of these dramas, she would accuse me of not living up to the standards I had set.
Suddenly, the title of “best friend” became a weighty burden, akin to a scratchy wool dress I could only escape if someone else unfastened it for me. We were both at fault; we had rushed into claiming a title that required time and trust to earn.
This scenario repeated itself at least four times—too many in my book. Once I recognized the type of women I was typically drawn to, I began to watch for red flags and heed the uncomfortable feelings in my gut when something felt off. I slowed my pace and hoped I had learned my lesson by the time I met Lila*.
Lila was enthusiastic about our friendship, but I took my time. I found her charismatic and entertaining, and hanging out with her was always a thrill. However, I often felt drained or self-critical after our encounters. Unable to articulate why I felt this way, I ignored the warning signs and allowed our friendship to accelerate, chasing the sisterly bond I craved.
One evening during dinner, we had a conversation that struck a nerve. I still remember it vividly, as it left me feeling wounded.
“I have a blind date,” I shared with her.
Lila paused, wiping her mouth. “With whom?”
“Someone Maggie set me up with.”
“Do I know him?” she asked, leaning in.
“No, he lives upstate.”
“Where upstate?” she pressed.
“Tivoli, I think. Maybe Cold Spring.”
“Wait, is it Graham Hunter?” I said, my mouth full of food.
Her expression fell, revealing disbelief. “Really? You’re being set up with Graham Hunter?”
“Yeah, why?” I asked, feeling a twinge of disappointment.
“Do you know what he looks like?” she questioned.
“No. Is it bad?” I sensed it might be.
“No, it’s not bad—he’s actually really handsome and hilarious. I just don’t see the connection.”
In an instant, I felt unattractive and dull.
Weeks later, I received recognition from the New York Times for my contribution to downtown culture. Lila was the last person to call me that day.
“Guess you had a good day,” she said, her tone grating.
“It’s been decent. I got a writing gig,” I replied.
“Oh, just a blog post or something?” she retorted.
“No, actually. New York Magazine wants me to write a feature article.”
“Really? Why you?”
“Because I’m a writer, and my photo was in the paper,” I explained, growing annoyed.
“Yeah, but it was just a photo. How do they know you can even write?”
“What’s your point?” I asked, feeling defensive.
“I’m stuck at home writing and pitching, and you get a job just because of a picture? How is that fair?”
Lila had a point; I questioned the validity of my assignment. But she didn’t need to share that thought in such a hurtful way.
The very next day, I listened to Mike Albo on This American Life discussing his book, The Underminer: The Best Friend Who Casually Destroys Your Life. As he captured the voice of the insincere friend, I felt a wave of clarity wash over me. Lila wasn’t a friend; she was an underminer. None of the women I rushed into friendships with truly cared for me—they were underminers, and I had a knack for attracting them!
This realization was more freeing than my previous labeling of them as narcissists. While narcissism is a stagnant noun, underminers actively undermine your happiness. This epiphany gave me the strength to end my friendship with Lila and move forward.
Recognizing the term “underminer” provided clarity. I realized I had built solid friendships over time—those rooted in genuine love, not the fleeting excitement of platonic infatuation.
However, I soon acknowledged that I had my own role in undermining potential friendships. I often rushed connections, stunting the growth of meaningful bonds.
Lila was the last underminer I allowed into my life. With my newfound awareness, I learned to trust my instincts, avoiding relationships that lacked authenticity. I once ignored the red flags, but after Lila, I became vigilant. I chose to heed my intuition and have since navigated friendships free from underminers.
(Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.)
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