The Cocktail Party

A new acquaintance of mine invited me to join her at Fig & Olive with a group of women one afternoon.  “They’re great, you’ll love them!”  Perfect.  I arrived at the restaurant and was greeted by a friendly group of blondes.  They were warm, inviting, and made me feel right at home.  One of the women announced (after I had known her for like 10 minutes) she was having a big cocktail party in two weeks and I had to come.  How sweet is that?  I heard from the other women how awesome her parties are, and all about the crowd who would be in attendance.  I left feeling optimistic and super excited.  I could barely wait the two weeks.

My brain immediately began building expectations.  Educated, sophisticated, professional people!  We will sip wine and discuss the BBC International News!  We will debate social policy in Ukraine, women’s rights in India, what to do about Boko Haram, and what a rock star Angela Merkel is!  I will meet interesting new girlfriends and handsome successful men!

I actually prepared for this cocktail party.  I packed a bag for the office: LBD, heels, handbag…I even brought makeup (thank you, M!) and accessories.  At the end of the day I changed and transformed, and my late-working colleagues’ jaws dropped as I emerged in my curve-hugging Michael Kors.  I was on a mission.

Upon arrival at the exclusive venue, I was met warmly by my host and introduced to the women of the first table.  They all knew each other from the same law firm.  After a quick round of introductions my host ran off to pour me a glass of wine, and so I faced the first woman and said, “I’m sorry—that was so fast.  How do you two know each other again?  Are you an attorney?”  Long pause, bored/blank expression, dramatic slow eye blink, followed by the most slowly articulated, haughty response:  “I’m married to one.  (pause, pause, pause) My husband…is her husband’s boss.”  Well then.  “Oh, how nice.”  Armed with my giant friendly smile, I turned to the next.  Friendlier but aloof, she replied with a half smile.  I figured she was a little shy.  (Later, she apparently became quite drunk, actually passed out on the floor, was placed on a couch and just left there, with her dress about her waist, and since it was a private club no one kicked her out and those who knew her just let her be.  Someone tried to cover her, and she kept uncovering herself, and was finally left alone, snoring, drooling and in a very odd and contorted position, much like a pretzel.)  The next woman at the table was an extrovert in a gold sequin minidress.  I joined her conversation just in time to hear about her FOUR boyfriends.  As I turned toward her there was a pause and everyone looked at me; I was speechless, so just tried to make light of the awkwardness I felt.  “Wow.  Four boyfriends?  I can’t even find one.  How do you…pull that off?”  I was hoping for a light laugh, a break in the tension.  Instead, I became the recipient of a didactic diatribe on dating and men.  “No one man can meet all of your needs.  You need a minimum of three.  One is handy, one is handsome, and one is smart.  You put them all together, and you have a complete boyfriend.”  I tried to maintain my best cocktail party face, but I don’t attend many cocktail parties, so I’m not well-practiced in this area.  Plus, she was talking total crap.  She went on to point out that although it is sometimes challenging to juggle them, she is sure they are each dating four women, so there is no need to feel too much pressure about keeping it all secret.  I shuddered, trying not to picture the details of all of their arrangements.  OK, so this one isn’t going to be in the inner circle.  Thankfully, she was maladroitly interrupted by an inebriated confession of an eating disorder, accompanied by a plastic-surgeried-to-death friend passing around photos of the once-too-slender woman for everyone to see.  What do you even say to that?  Oh yes, indeed, you were anorexic!  Remarkable.

Right at that moment one of the women I had met a few weeks earlier walked by; I hugged her like she was my long lost friend from Girl Scout camp.  Unfortunately, she wasn’t exactly sober this time, and the sweet and friendly woman I remembered was nowhere to be found.  “I’m soooo happy to see you!” she slurred.  “You’re the BEST!!!”  Oh dear.  “Come, let me tell you all about the premonition I’m having about you right now!”  I steered her toward a table full of sober-appearing people in a feeble attempt to create a buffer zone.  She proceeded to insist I am the soul mate of her ex-boyfriend, that she sees herself walking me down the aisle at the wedding, and his mother is thanking her profusely.  Conversation at the table stopped, and again, all eyes were on me.  “So…in your premonition you’re walking me down the aisle at my wedding?”  (OK, the sober people chuckled at least.)  “Don’t you mock my premonitions!”  She went on and on, we were all trapped inside of what felt like a reality TV show, until someone said something along the lines of “this sounds like the Maury Povich show,” at which point she started screaming (and yes, the entire restaurant stopped to stare, which she didn’t notice, because she was drunk), “Did you say Maury Po-vich?!?  Do NOT mention his name.  He ruined my life!”  She proceeded to give a slurred account of the fateful day she was a guest on the show and was made a fool of by her family member, etc., etc.  “And the worst part is, I didn’t even look good.  They made my hair awful!”  (Really?  You go on a scandal-laced daytime talk show on which someone in your family makes a fool of you, and you're talking about your hair?)

The night wasn’t all bad; I did meet a few really sweet women who had all their wits about them, and I enjoyed the typical banter involving their babies, hobbies and jobs.  It was all a bit overshadowed by the drama, and I couldn’t wait to slip out and take off my painful high heels the second I got into the car.  I went home and slept.  And all the next day I sat in a funk.  Despite not drinking, I felt like I had a hangover.  What happened to the BBC?  How can people who are so educated be so…that?  This was the tipping point.  After a day of near-depression and mental exhaustion, lamenting yet another failed attempt at finding my tribe, my decision was made.  It was time to see it for what it is:  not a failure to find new friends, but a parade of utter ridiculousness.  And since misery loves company, here we are.