As we grow up there are certain tasks that we must face, no matter how unpleasant they may seem. With the privilege of being a mature and independent human being, there comes responsibility, to ourselves, our world, and our families. Some we take on willingly and happily; others we take on with the grudging acceptance that it is simply the bittersweet part of life.
I encountered one such task last night, one of those uncomfortable little nuggets that I know will require my attention from time to time, but which I usually keep out of my conscious awareness so that I may move through my days happy and light. Yes, last night I finally had to come face to face with it: the spouse / partner company holiday party. I should state for the record that Scott works with nice, fun people, and his boss and boss’ wife are superb hosts. That said, there is something about the dynamic of the S/PCHP that is inherently uncomfortable (for me, at least), beyond my usual level of discomfort in large gatherings of people who are better than I am at smalltalk. I am not sure what happened to me. I used to love to talk to everyone at a party, but then, I also used to drink and be single.
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I am perfectly happy at a party standing by myself and watching everyone else, occasionally listening in on a conversation. I can do this happily for hours, but it makes other people uncomfortable and then they feel compelled to talk to me because I must be lonely, which I am not, and then they realize that I am just like this, and then everyone is uncomfortable.
Anyway, some observations from the few moments I got to spend being a loner, uninterrupted:
Wife Clones
Most of the employees at the party were men, and most of the wives in attendance had an eerie sameness about them. Maybe it was the uniform: long sweater or sweater dress, leggings or tights, knee high boots. Makeup. Fake smiles and other parts. It was more Pikesville than Stepford, but I still felt out of place. I am not a salesman’s wife.
The People Who Can’t Talk About Anything Other Than Their Kids
A common fixture, it is forgivable if the kids are young and require all of a couple’s focus, but a little odd when the kids are closing in on thirty.
I Am A Big Freak
After a few bites of veggies and hummus, I became hyper aware of the fact that people were shaking hands and touching food and shaking hands and touching food some more, and I have absolutely no authority over their bathroom habits or the bathroom habits of people in their care and oh my god it is norovirus season and proteins and bacteria growth and danger zones, oh my, I think I will just stay here with my tonic water and hope my glass isn’t contaminated.
Shoes
Fine, FINE, I’ll admit it. I am a little obsessed lately. Once the boot brigade cleared, I noticed there were a few of us: one with four inch silver strappy heels, another wearing a pair of blue pumps with this funky ring/strap thing, another in big crazy platform ankle cuff contraptions, and me with my shiny red patent stilettos.
For pod-sterity, a photo. After dinner, I ducked into a restroom to check my email and slip these off for a moment. I didn't expect to be standing as long as I was, but fortunately, half of each foot went numb after the first hour.
We all ended up around the same table toward the end of the evening, in our adventurous and somewhat outfit specific shoes. As my mind started to wander away from the conversation (sports, TV), I wondered: are they just stylish, or do they have a shoe thing? A foot thing? Are their fellas into it?* I did a quick visual sweep of the room to see if any of the fellas were checking out my podogoodies. Maybe one. Then I was drawn into a conversation about naked yoga. According to one of Scott’s co-workers, there is a place somewhere on Harford Road offering naked yoga classes, both co-ed and men only (not sure about women only). I am not sure I could handle that.
Another Way In Which I Am A Big Freak
The hosts -who clearly love entertaining and are very, very good at it- made a special dish that was both vegan (for me) and gluten free (for a guest with celiac). It was a baked ziti with brown rice pasta, veggie sausage, and soy cheese. It was nicely done and and impressive show for some one who has never cooked with those ingredients, but when the host was announcing the menu, the mention of it was met by some rude comments and guffaws. It was as if he had used a whole other v word to describe it. That’s right: vagina casserole. I double-dog dare you. I guess it didn’t occur to anyone that they made a vegan dish because there was an actual, real live vegan in the room, who will throw paint on your leather boots any second now because we have nothing better to do than obsess over other people’s behavior. Super classy. Have another beer.
So that’s it. This little nugget of adult life is behind me for another year, and I can go back about my light and happy business.
*That’s right a FOOTnote.** Ahem. It has been pointed out to me that the shoe talk and pictures may start drawing in a different kind of audience. I am fine with that. No such thing as bad publicity, right? And if it happens to segue into a new career, say, writing foot erotica, I am cool with that, too, and I need the money. Shoes + tax deduction = WIN. Just please don’t come to my house expecting a show.
**It has been several months since I moved my blog to wordpress, and in all that time I have been a little grumpy about the lack of formatting for footnotes in this theme. Somehow it never occurred to me to just modify the CSS, which is kind of the whole point of these themes. Big fat duh. Talk about cursing the darkness.
