Flakiness has to be one of the most frequently committed friendship sins. It shouldn’t be hard for any of us to do what we say we’ll do, but there are so many demands on our time and thoughts that the only way to avoid it entirely is to live in a land with no electricity. Social media allows us to be consumed in our own dramas, and makes us rubbish at giving mates emotional support because we’re immersed in our own narrative. And when we’re all being emailed by our bosses at 11pm at night and forced to fear for our job security, we’re too burned out to go out. So nights out planned by friends are attended resentfully, if they’re attended at all.
I ought to admit that there have been times in my life during which I have been so flakey that friends were probably wondering how the hell to deal with me. I’m lazy, unfocused and reluctant to commit to any future social plans, because nothing I could do in the outside world, with people, could possibly be as undemanding and instantly gratifying as watching the *Hammerman *theme on a loop on YouTube from my bed, wearing nothing but my disgusting pink H&M velour shorts and eating M&S lobster flavoured kettle chips. If I have spent my weekend sleeping in, and covering myself in a film of filth and crumbs, I do not want to shower, ship out to the worst bar in Zone 1 and drink warm white wine that costs £9 a glass and tastes like Mel Gibson’s venomous spittle because you’ve had a bloody birthday. Again. I will do anything to get out of this. I am flakier than a Gregg’s sausage roll when it comes to social occasions.
I’ve encountered some extreme pal flakiness that has shaken me from my habitual languor and forced me to brush the bits of crisps from my shirt in disgust
However, it takes a flake to know a flake. I might have pretty low standards, but I’ve encountered some extreme pal flakiness that has shaken me from my habitual languor and forced me to brush the bits of crisps from my shirt in disgust. I like to think of myself as the mate version of The Dude from The Big Lebowski. If you’re so vague and bad at delivering on your promises that you manage to anger The Dude, you’ve got a problem.
When I’m tempted to flake, I think of the worst friend-on-friend behaviour I’ve ever been on the receiving end of and how it made me feel. Not turning up to a party is pretty bad, but casually cancelling a party can be so much worse. Especially when you’ve spent your last 20 quid in the world on a train ticket and a bottle of wine, and you get a Facebook message – not even an actual text! – letting you know that your friend thinks she ‘might’ have swine flu and is calling the whole thing off. And you get a proper text from a different friend confirming the party’s off, but it’s not because she has a serious illness, she just can’t be bothered to tidy the flat. Or when you’ve promised her a fancy dinner and been up all night trying to figure out how gelatine works and whether it is humanly possible to use it in a mousse, only to get a 6pm text explaining that the office hottie has asked her for a ‘quick drink' and she’d rather pursue some vague offer of potential sex than catch up with you over badly blended homemade gazpacho.
The office hottie has asked her for a ‘quick drink’ and she’d rather pursue some vague offer of potential sex than catch up with you
A bad flake hides their evil in a cloak of casualness. They make you feel like a chess piece, and they can’t even be bothered to play with you because there’s every chance they’ll just tip the game over, screaming: ‘BORED NOW!’ If someone truly revels in their ability to make you feel small, to engage in power play and to make you feel that their time is more valuable than yours, there’s only one way to fix the problem: You have to stop being friends with them. And I don’t think you owe them an explanation. Treat them like you’d treat a crush that’s making you miserable. Just delete their number and block them on all social networks.
But most flakiness is periodic, and the good news is that all other flakes can be cured. If a flake isn’t manipulating you for the sake of emotional point scoring, they genuinely don’t know that they’re being terrible. You can silently fester and fume until the friendship sours like bio yoghurt that has been poured behind a radiator, or you can take a deep breath and confront your pal. In the case of the dinner canceller, I sulked all weekend, acting in my usual manner – bitching, crafting a few Facebook posts about how brilliant my weekend was to ‘spite’ her, and acting as if it was a pleasure for her to bail and all I’d ever wanted to do was eat a home-made three-course dinner for two people by myself. Then I decided to take a deep breath and call her.
But most flakiness is periodic, and the good news is that all other flakes can be cured
‘I don’t want to make this into a big deal [gulp], but I was looking forward to seeing you and what you did was… Was… R_e_ally rude!’ *She cut me off. She had been feeling bad all weekend. She’d been so shag blind, she explained, and focused on this guy, that it was like being drunk. And now she was sober, she felt like the worst person in the universe. ‘He was terrible!’ ***she wailed. ‘And as he leaned over me with this sad semi, all I could think was, "This is karmic punishment! This is what happens to people who fail to honour prior social engagements! I’ll never flake again!"' We made up, she cooked me dinner, and now we both tell her cautionary tale. Not only is being a big flake rude, irresponsible and selfish, it can really wreck your sex life.
Follow Daisy on Twitter @NotRollerGirl
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.