I’ve been hearing about this party and everyone going seems to have been invited at MY party recently. You know, the one where my beautiful candle was stolen from my bathroom? That one.
Everyone’s asking if I’m going, the short answer is NO.
Perhaps we were never properly acquainted to grant me an invitation, because as the host of a party, you are pulled in all directions. You’re expected to provide. To create ambience. To have meaningful enough conversations but keep it moving like the butterfly that you are. Sometimes you don’t get to talk to everyone, especially if you’re a tag-along. A plus-one. A friend-of-a-friend. Some neighbour who just wants to check out your place. But at the very least introduce yourself as you walk into someone’s house. It doesn’t take long to figure out whose party you’re attending. And when you do get to the host, NEVER DOUBT THEM when they tell you, Yes, this is my house, this is my party.
So you enjoyed my party, got some ideas, met a bunch of cute gays and decided to POACH. I would’ve figured the classy thing to do is to extend the invite as a thank you. Thank you for all the things that it took to throw a party, you’ve done a great job, Oh and I’m throwing a party in a few weeks, you should come! — would’ve been the neighbourly thing to do.
My husband and I are no stranger to hosting and attending parties. Heck, even single-handedly shaped an industry event of 400 people. But on a more down-to-earth scale, Soirées of a select few low-maintenance friends, Bangers which required a bartender to cut off them lush, Potlucks where everyone showcases their new favourite recipes and Double-Dinner dates where gestures of picking up a single cheque feels so, adult and rich.
At forty, you develop a palette for socialization and just what exactly you’re willing to stay up late for. And certainly not for a random party room with plastic cups.
