Party Pooper

The Hubster and I have been out every night for the past three evenings and still have another party to attend tonight.

And I don’t want to go. Can’t do it. Shouldn’t have to.

I am fairly certain the US Surgeon General discourages people over the age of 40 from staying away from the comfort and safety of their couches for more than two nights in a row. Remind me to Google that….

We have consumed more wine, whiskey and rich food over the past 72 hours than during November and December combined. It’s social feast or famine around Chez City and right now we're reminding ourselves not to be offended when we don’t get invited anywhere for the next six months. Being sociable is exhausting.

Saturday we attended a friend’s pre-birthday dinner, which was lovely, lovely, lovely...although I felt like hiding in the cloak room most of the time. My scary extrovertedness is actually a cover for the fact that I’m introverted. The intimacy of the Saturday setting and sheer volume of new faces sent me backing into my shell and to the comfort of the coat pile. Don't you love the coat pile? Remember rummaging through all the strange coats at your parents parties?

Anyway, last night was the fabulous birthday fete at the Country Club (you have to stick out your lower jaw in a faux underbite when you say “Country Club”) where I ran into people I’d not seen in years, caught up with some people I truly do care about and gawked at the naked display of small-town-society one-upmanship.

It was disturbing, frankly. One woman’s face was pulled so tight she looked like Voldemort. Another wore so much jewelry she appeared to be a QVC presenter on shore leave. Several extremely self-important men floated around, greeting guests, as if they’d invited us to their party. Which they didn't. And it wasn't.

I hosed off and dressed appropriately. Not many people caught on to the fact that, aside from absolutely loving to pieces the Birthday Boy, I had about as much business being there as a harbor seal at a square dance. Full Disclosure: Hubster was really the invitee, I was the date.

Anyway, tonight we hang with a completely different, but equally ill-fitting, crowd. Maybe we’ll see a few people we know, but we’ll be so worn out from the events of the previous three nights that we run a serious risk of not recognizing any of them....

So, Happy New Year, kids! I hope that wherever you are at midnight, it is exactly where you want to be.

Image Credit:


City Girl said…
I've had two emails already - NO, that is not a picture of The Hubster!
Heather said…
Look at you, you social butterfly.
Tom said…
Good... I should also assume that it's not me either, right?

And I totally had to stick out my lower jaw to say that. It's the only way it can be pronounced properly.

So tonight, y'all will be heading to a dive bar where there will be a cover band playing a bunch of Lynyrd Skynyrd songs, and people wearing cowboy or trucker hats, right?

Oh, wait. I think that's where Dory's going... nevermind.
City Girl said…
Tom: I wish!

Heather: Yeah, that's me. Four parties in twelve months. Hooo! Look at 'er go!
fatboyfat said…
That photo....


I was young. I needed the money. The photographer said that he'd keep it artistic.
City Girl said…
LOL. So this is who Fab Boy closely resembles? Not bad.