The party’s in there, and we’re out here
My wife and I are introverts who pretend to be extroverts, both personally and professionally, which means that we are the kind of people who plan a party, and then immediately regret it once the invitations are sent.
We write the date of the party with a Sharpie on our adorable miniature dachshund calendar that hangs next to the front door, then examine the calendar every day until the party arrives. We stare at the date with a mixture of profound dread and abject fear, fear that our antisocial tendencies will somehow manifest during the party in some horrific and inappropriate manner, or that the image of normalcy we have literally labored for weeks to project will be shattered like a crystal goblet when a guest unwittingly opens a closet door or a cabinet or a drawer, and three months’ worth of detritus that has been stuffed into any available out-of-sight compartment comes springing out like fake fuzzy snakes out of a can. A guest only needed a fork, but ended up with a ripped bleacher cushion, a balled-up yoga mat, some expired cat food coupons, and the first season of “Golden Girls” on DVD.
“Sorry, forks are in the other drawer,” I offer. “Isn’t that Blanche a hoot, though?”
Let me be clear. We like people. We even love some people. But, we tend to do better with people in smaller groups, with smaller groups defined as two or less. The old saying that “three is a crowd” is a literal truth for us. We can deal with somewhat of a crowd. We have found that our magic number for a party is eight people. If more than eight people show up, our house suddenly feels like a mosh pit, or like getting on a hotel elevator with the New York Jets football team and going up to the 100th floor.
When more than eight people are gathered in our home, I know that sooner or later my throat will tighten up and I will get that feeling I always get when I dream of crawling into caverns or through a tiny attic until I am trapped and can move no further, not one inch. Then I know I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to escape to the deck. But there are more people there, two or three clusters of them, hanging in random places like grapes from a vine. For an introvert, no problem is more impossible to solve than how to insinuate oneself into a conversation between people that is already in progress, as almost all conversations at parties necessarily are. I have no aptitude for this whatsoever, so all I can do is pretend that I am looking for someone — “oh, she’s not out here? — and then duck back inside and move stealthily toward the door that leads to the driveway.
“Where are you going?” somebody shouts. Busted. “You can’t leave, this is your house!”
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“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I think I left something in the car.”
When I get outside and shut the door, I feel like a character in one of those disaster movies where everyone’s survival depends on the sealing of a valve or a hatch or something to keep out the water or the deadly gas — though I feel guilty thinking of our guests (our dear, dear friends) in this way. But when the door is sealed, I find I can relax and breathe just a little and bask in the warm glow of laughter still going on inside the house, on the other side of the door. Perhaps I will not be missed at all, maybe for as long as 10 or 15 rapturous minutes.
And then I remember my wife, still in there, still “on.” I know what happens when she has to stay on and perform for more than three or four hours at a time. A crash is coming, and I mean a big one. The kids and I might as well forget about seeing her tomorrow. She’ll need a full day to curl up in her chenille blanket and recharge her batteries before engaging in any interaction with anyone, even the dog.
It occurs to me that I should go back inside and get her. Pretend that there is some urgent situation out here that requires her presence. Practice the Golden Rule. Rescue her as I would have her rescue me.
And I will, just as soon as I’ve had just a few moments to regroup in the backseat of my car. When I open the door, I find her already there, stretched out as if reclining in a hammock, reading her Kindle as if this behavior were the most normal thing in the world.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I say. “How long you been out here?”
“This is the third chapter.”
“Nicely done. Should we go back in?”
“Why?”
“Because we are throwing a party, and it’s in there and we’re out here.”
“Is it still a party?”
“Yes, I guess it is.”
“Then get in the car.”
So, here we are, hiding out in the backseat of my car like a couple of teenagers scheming to make out, but actually more like two dead cell phones trying to get enough of a charge to make it through the next couple of hours until people begin to leave.
Another chapter ought to do it. Or maybe two.
(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher. This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.)
