Party of One: The Single Girl & The Party, Part I
October 31st, 2005 — Sita Mae EdwardsNot long ago my friend Katherine and I decided over lunch that the innermost circle of hell is undoubtedly one eternal cocktail party. There’s a whole set of assumptions that attach to a single woman at a party, and they are only exacerbated if that woman happens to be fat. Single and slender, people wonder why you haven’t been snapped up. Single and fat, people don’t wonder - they think they KNOW.
I’m allergic to putting myself in positions which confirm people in their prejudices, so I tend to avoid parties where I don’t know many people. It makes me want to drawl self-importantly, “Well, the Count really wanted to be here, *dahlink*, but he had some urgent last minute business with the Royals, and you know how they hate to be kept waiting!” In addition to that, I get shy in crowds of strangers. Generally speaking I’m quite outgoing and self-confident. (Enough so that when I tell people that crowds make me shy, they snort in disbelief.) The combination is just bad. It serves to push every insecurity button I have, and make me want to crawl under the couch, whimpering for my mommy.
Which is precisely why I accepted as many party invitations as possible over the holidays. No, I’m not a masochist. (Though who doesn’t like a good spanking now and then? Mrowl, baby.) My life experience has made it abundantly clear that, much like the thwap-a-mole at the carnival, my fears just pop up repeatedly until I clobber them for good. In college, I dealt with my tomboyish refusal to wear skirts by throwing out my pants and wearing nothing *but* skirts. Nine years later, I still prefer them. Insta-femininity combined with excellent air circulation - what’s not to like? But I digress.
In the true spirit of drawing one’s sword and bravely facing the slobbering Beast of Social Insecurity, I accepted several party invitations in the Halloween to New Year bloc. The first was to a Halloween party thrown by none other than Katherine, my cocktail party loathing friend. Having spent more time learning to deal with obligatory parties than I have, she had a couple of helpful suggestions. (Nothing like a friend who understands one’s neuroses to get you through the tough times.)
1. Get to the party early, while it’s in the closing stages of being set up. That way, you can meet people as they come through the door and are still nice individuals, prior to the pack mentality that happens once they’ve all arrived and are drinking and mooning each other *en masse*. (It’s a good idea to clear this with the hostess first, provided of course that she isn’t the one that suggested it to you.
2. Find something useful to do in the doorway area, and make a point of greeting each person as they enter, introducing yourself, and striking up some sort of conversation. It doesn’t have to last long, but it fixes you in their mind, and it’s easier later in the evening to join circles of people standing around talking to each other. You’re more likely to get a bright smile and a cheerful, “We met earlier, could you tell me your name again? I’d like you to meet some friends of mine!”
3. This may not be a rule, exactly, but here’s something *not* to do: Girding my proverbial loins, I pranced my way on my brand new 4″ sex kitten heels over to the door to practice Katherine’s suggestion. (Thank you Torrid, for creating a perfect harmony between agony and foxiness.) Standing near it was a really beautiful man. He was tall, African American, had those cool skinny little dreds all the way down his back, and biceps so large that I could almost hear his leather jacket panting with the effort of containing them. Mrowl, indeed. I don’t remember what I said initially, but eventually the inevitable Halloween party costume bit came up. I was feeling rather proud of my slinky little form-fitting black t-shirt that had a red devil tail sassily wrapped around the words, “Devilishly Cute.” (Sometimes, the obvious bears repeating.) I was going for a sort of lazy-urban-slightly-slutty-devilette look. I even had those tremendously cool drag queen tinsel eyelashes that stick out for *miles*. I couldn’t see a thing, but I looked smashing. I couldn’t figure this guy’s costume out, though. Very understated. Was he going for Cool Incarnate? Perhaps Tyr Anasazi from that show “Andromeda?” My query was met with a friendly, but nearly monosyllabic, “Bouncer.” “Ah,” I thought, “that’s a good one. He gets to go to the party without all the what-will-I-wear drama!” Then the doorbell rang, he removed his list of permitted guests from his pocket, and proceeded to check them off. In the immortal words of Homer Simpson…..”Doh!” Not “A” bouncer - “THE” bouncer!
Though some of you are no doubt recoiling in horror, I thought it was pretty funny. Evidently the bouncer did, too, judging from the grin and wink he shot me as he got to work. And really - isn’t any party at which handsome men grin and wink at you a smashing success? I certainly thought so. Thank you, Katherine! (Next Issue - Birthday parties galore!)
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