I’m not much for receptions. Or parties. Or any quasi-social gathering of, say, three or more people where I might actually be expected to mingle and chat with (at best) slight acqaintances or (at worst) complete and utter strangers. If I see you at such a gathering and I know you fairly well, I will cling to you like mildew to grout and cramp your style royally as I will hover by you all evening until you finally flee in desperation. My face will contort and my left eyelid will begin to spasm rapidly as I wrack my brain for something, ANYTHING to talk about. I will crumple the party’s napkin supply in my sweaty palms and nervously clutch my cup of wine/diet coke/painkillers as I scout out the best location for blending into the background.
Heaven-forbid if someone tries to shake my sodden hands.
I will studiously examine every knickknack/dvd collection/three-volume photo album series of the host family’s road trip to Cincinnati as a flimsy excuse for not partaking in the conversations about movies I surely didn’t see/political figures I’ve never heard of/pop bands that give me hives. And the chances are very good that I will offer to wash your dishes/pick up ice/resurface the wood floor in your foyer in order to kill time during the OAP (Obligatory Attendence Period), which varies by event type/relationship to host/length of time before the sedatives wear off.
All told, I had a decent time at last night’s little fete.
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