“If you want to have a good old age, you have to manage your friends well. Geum-na, you are one of the seven people I am currently managing.”
The moment Geum-na heard Oki’s words, she knit her brows and shot a look of annoyance at Eun-jung. Eun-jung shrugged, waiting for Oki to say, “And you, Eun-jung, are one of those seven, too,” but Oki fell silent, lost in thought. Oki had maintained these seven friendships for years, "managing" them in her own way. Jin-ju, Dong-geum, and Kwang-hee were on the list. Eun-jung was not.
Geum-na did not like Oki. She wondered if Oki had been infected by her husband, a foreigner with bipolar disorder. Oki cycled through manic and depressive episodes every three months. Her social life only existed during the manic phases. During her three months of depression, she went into total seclusion. When the mania returned, she would roam the streets with bloodshot, exhausted eyes, as if trying to make up for lost time like a traveler determined to get their money’s worth. She would go on shopping sprees, showering her friends with gifts.
Whenever Oki met her friends, she would pour out all the Korean words she couldn’t say at home. It was as if she hadn't eaten Korean food in months; she would talk incessantly with her mouth full. Watching her made Geum-na lose her appetite. If Geum-na tried to talk to Eun-jung, Oki would interject and take over. She never gave anyone else a chance to speak, driving everyone to the brink of exhaustion with her frantic chatter. The only saving grace was that she left them alone during her three months of depression. In a lucky year, they might avoid her entirely.
Geum-na felt burdened every time Oki emphasized their "friendship" while handing over a gift. Claiming the items ruined her minimalist interior, Geum-na would throw them away as soon as she got home. She made constant excuses about "prior engagements" to avoid meeting Oki. Occasionally, at Jin-ju’s urging, she would attend a gathering, but she always sat at a distance—sitting opposite Oki ruined her appetite, and sitting beside her left her ears ringing and her head throbbing.
After a long hiatus since last year’s meeting at Oki’s house, the group—Geum-na, Eun-jung, Oki, Dong-geum, Jin-ju, and Kwang-hee—met at an outdoor event in Upstate New York. The scent of acacia drifted on the breeze. It was the exact scent of the country roads from their childhood. For a moment, they all fell silent, intoxicated by the nostalgia.
Suddenly, an elderly woman who looked like a mouse joined them. She was close with Oki—always looking for an advantage—but she disliked Eun-jung. She squinted as if spying and asked Oki, “Ms. Oki, what is your relationship with Ms. Eun-jung?”
“We’re friends,” Eun-jung blurted out first, unusually quick to speak.
“We aren’t friends,” Oki corrected. Eun-jung’s face flushed red; she put down her spoon, frozen. The mouse-like woman, even more curious now, pressed on: “Well, if you aren’t friends, then what are you?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Oki replied, “I am friends with Eun-jung’s husband.”
Not friends with Eun-jung, but friends with her husband? At this absurd remark, Eun-jung looked at Geum-na, her eyes pleading for support. Geum-na looked away in silence. Eun-jung, not knowing where to look, eventually stared into the empty air in resignation.
Thirty years ago, when Oki first came to America, the first person she met was Eun-jung’s husband. Back then, he was a broke Korean man with no real job—not marriage material for Oki. He was simply a reliable friend who helped her move heavy things and listened to her worries. But the moment he introduced Eun-jung as his fiancée, Oki hated her. She disliked her thin frame, her stiff curly hair, and the sharp, narrow eyes on her dark little face. She looked like a prickly woman who would hold a man in her palm and shake him.
Eun-jung had continued to meet Oki at various gatherings through her husband’s introduction. She replayed Oki’s words—“We aren’t friends”—over and over in her mind. Had she been the only one who considered them friends? Was Oki’s menopause and bipolar disorder making her psychologically confused? It was jarring to hear that decades of shared history meant nothing, yet as time passed, Eun-jung didn’t feel entirely bad. In fact, she felt a sense of relief, as if the burden of Oki’s volatile friendship had finally lifted itself off her shoulders.
Lately, Eun-jung’s husband, who used to earn so little, was doing very well. Oki found it galling to see Eun-jung, who used to be so much poorer than her, shedding her "scent of poverty" and becoming more sophisticated. There was a mean streak in Oki that wanted Eun-jung to stay shriveled up in her past misery. She resented Eun-jung for not throwing a housewarming party yet and for being "stingy"—giving only a bottle of wine in return for Oki’s hard-earned gifts. Oki whispered these grievances to the mouse-like woman and officially struck Eun-jung off her list of "seven managed friends." Eun-jung, occupied with building her own life, had no idea—and frankly, she wasn't the type to care.
“Oki, if you’re friends with her husband, you’re friends with her! Why say something so hurtful? We’ve all gotten along for so long,” Dong-geum scolded, taking Eun-jung’s side when everyone else stayed silent.
Dong-geum was easygoing and generous, always welcoming friends into her home. She could be loud and temperamental, but she was a straight-talker who never held a grudge or gossiped. Despite her age, her pale, makeup-free face was charming. She preferred a natural, tomboyish style over dressing up. She loved drinking and good company. She much preferred hosting and cooking huge meals with ingredients sent by her mother from Korea, providing her friends with a nostalgic "gourmet tour" of their homeland.
Lately, Dong-geum felt a hollow emptiness since her children had left for college. Living in a quiet suburban house near the sea, she was struggling to fill the void. While her husband was away on a frequent business trip, she invited the group over. The six of them gathered comfortably for the first time in a while.
The seating reflected the hidden tensions. Geum-na chose a seat facing the backyard to avoid looking at Oki. Kwang-hee sat opposite Geum-na. Oki sat near the kitchen with Dong-geum. The house was stocked with every kind of alcohol.
“Shall we start with some ice wine as a palate cleanser, then move to beer or wine?” Dong-geum asked. “I’m going for Somaek (Soju and beer),” Eun-jung said, licking her lips.
Outside, it was raining; inside, the fireplace crackled—a perfect day for drinking.
“Why are there so many depressed people these days?” Oki started, seemingly forgetting her own condition. Everyone except Kwang-hee shrugged and exchanged knowing looks.
“The pandemic has dragged on too long. People are exhausted. They’ve grown sharp, like cactus needles,” said Kwang-hee, who was always five seconds behind the conversation and obsessed with golf.
“There’s no going back to the way things were. We should just be thankful to be alive and enjoy each day,” said Jin-ju, a devout Christian who always tried to lead the group toward harmony.
“Just drink! It’ll all end when it’s time,” Dong-geum said coolly, glancing at the calligraphy her father had written for her: Jin-in-sa-dae-cheon-myeong (Do your best and leave the rest to heaven).
Geum-na watched them with a cold expression. She was a "DINK" (Double Income, No Kids) who lived a stylish life traveling with her husband. She had the figure of a younger woman and a refined, expensive taste in clothes. Eun-jung often tried to copy Geum-na’s style, but with less money, she ended up looking like a cheap imitation.
Geum-na’s gaze lingered on Kwang-hee, her brow furrowing as if Kwang-hee’s very appearance was a form of pollution. Kwang-hee was a "divorced single" who seemed to compensate for her loneliness by over-accessorizing. Hats, earrings, necklaces—she was a walking distraction. She always carried a massive backpack stuffed with things. Under her psychiatrist's advice to reach out to people, she called her friends at all hours to vent her loneliness.
Recently, Kwang-hee had called Eun-jung’s house late at night. Eun-jung’s husband had snapped: “Enough! Stop calling in the middle of the night and waking people up!” and hung up. Furious, Kwang-hee had called Dong-geum, then Jin-ju, and finally Geum-na to complain. Geum-na had simply told her, “Stop bothering people and see your doctor more often.” Peace had only returned when the weather warmed up and Kwang-hee went back to the golf course.
As the alcohol flowed, Oki yanked at Kwang-hee’s hat. “Take this off. Dust falls into my plate every time you lean over.” “Don’t touch my hat! My hair is a mess underneath,” Kwang-hee barked. She was a sight—wearing a wide-brimmed hat over a square face, squeezed into small-sized leopard print skinny jeans that did nothing to hide her protruding belly and sagging hips. She lived in the fantasy that she was still a size "Small."
“Kwang-hee, I’m saying this because I care,” Oki interjected. “Can you cover your belly and hips? People are whispering.” “Who? Let them! I should have gone golfing instead of coming here to hear this,” Kwang-hee shouted, her layers of metal necklaces clanking. “And why so many necklaces? You’ll get a herniated disk. Just wear one, or a scarf. I’m only telling you this because I’m your friend.” “Mind your own business!” Kwang-hee snapped.
Everyone’s eyes turned to Oki. Oki had gained weight and become quite large. She tried to hide her rolls under long, flowing clothes that only made her look bigger. The small scarf she used to hide her neck wrinkles looked as unnatural as a bowtie on a gown.
Dong-geum slammed her glass down. “Kwang-hee is right. Stop worrying about other people’s fat and manage your own. Want to see mine?” She stood up and pulled up her shirt, revealing her pale belly. “Let’s toast to our own bellies!”
Eun-jung and Jin-ju shrugged and raised their glasses. Geum-na glared at Dong-geum and Oki, then raised her glass with a look of utter pity for Kwang-hee. Kwang-hee looked like she wanted to launch them all into the air like golf balls.
The drinking started at 11 AM and was still going at 4 PM. Jin-ju, who stayed sober and looked elegant in her expensive but modest clothes, tried to break up the party. “Let’s stop. I can’t drive in the dark. We need to leave by 5.”
Geum-na whispered to Eun-jung, “It’s amazing how she can spend so much money on clothes and still look so dowdy.” Geum-na found Jin-ju’s rigid, scheduled life and her obsession with health food suffocating.
Geum-na thought to herself: Eun-jung used to be tolerable, but now she just repeats the same stories once she drinks. It’s repulsive to see her and Dong-geum getting wasted and talking nonsense. Dong-geum was currently shouting about Korean politics, fueled by YouTube videos.
“Why do you live in America and scream about Korean politics?” Jin-ju asked gently. “Because I’m bored! Why are you so obsessed with religion?” Dong-geum shot back. “Stop it. Stop talking about politics and religion. Don’t you think it’s a waste of the one life you have?” Geum-na’s quiet intervention ended the fight instantly.
Was it the irritability of menopause? Or the stress of the "life marathon"? Some friends were successful and enjoyed stability; others were still running, stressed by the need to maintain their lead. Some had given up, yet couldn't let go of their regrets. It was a race with no finish line.
When they met occasionally, the "prickliness" was manageable. But frequent meetings and too much alcohol allowed the underlying resentment to rise like smoke from a volcano. The ancient poet Tao Yuanming once said: “Neither too close, nor too far.” If you are too close, you wound each other; too far, and you cause hurt through neglect. Over time, as their values diverged, small things became big problems. They had reached the point where they no longer wanted to meet.
Later, Jin-ju invited Geum-na and Eun-jung to her house. “I’m too busy,” Geum-na said. When Eun-jung asked her to go, Geum-na was blunt: “You go alone. I don’t want to go.”
Eun-jung didn't push. Instead, she met Geum-na alone at a cafe. Geum-na was cold. Eun-jung felt it—Geum-na had pushed away the others, and now it was her turn. The Geum-na who used to greet her with a bright smile was now silent and sullen.
“The atmosphere here is still good,” Eun-jung offered. Geum-na just smirked. “Fewer people than before. The coffee is the same.” As Geum-na sipped her coffee and chewed her bread, she thought: I see the traits of Kwang-hee, Oki, Dong-geum, and Jin-ju in Eun-jung now. I don’t want to talk to her anymore.
“Nothing in this world stays the same,” Geum-na often said. Eun-jung realized it was true. Geum-na has changed. I have changed. We aren't the fresh-faced girls we used to be. It’s the law of nature. I should accept her pushing me away with grace. I’m thankful for the time we were friends. Perhaps after menopause has passed, we can meet again and admit how prickly we were. And if not, so be it. I must focus on my own life.
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