It's a party!

It happened again. As reluctant as I could be for pride’s sake, I have to conclude it is officially another defeat. My dinner guests from a week ago looked away as we exchanged glances across the room. There was no residue or recollection of the “party” in their eyes or body language. My insecurity increased when none of them stopped to say some polite words about that dinner. It was not at all unexpected, but none the less unbearable.

We have all been there: hosting one of those embarrassing dinner parties when food, conversation or fun just went flat. As any prideful hosts would do, I couldn’t help questioning why and how. Did the food over-bake in the oven just a tap too long? Did we repeat some jokes we might have told already? Or, are we losing the “touch”? Surely we have hosted dinners plenty enough times from Illinois, Virginia, all the way to New Hampshire and now back to Virginia. There definitely have been successes and yet it was always failures that surface up to haunt us.

There is this conflict within me when it comes to interpersonal relationship. My friends laugh when I tell them in simple words: I am very shy. To them, shy and I are as immiscible as oil and water. What they fail to see are the pages under the cover. In any crowded setting, I become so uneasy that I would resolve in hiding myself in excessive words or food. Thus attending or hosting a party is definitely outside of my comfort zone or against my better intuition. Any attempts would be more like embarking on a challenge then fulfilling the basic social desire. It’s logical to think if you practice more you might just get better. To face this particular daemon, I am constantly calculating strategy for win, one of them being the art of mixing, i. e. bringing the right crowd together so that they may play with one another with minimum endeavor or even interference from their brave yet insecure hosts.

With this in mind, guest list was carefully engineered. Menu planned and a trip to the supermarket later, I was all ready to conquer. This time I felt unusually confident with my clever match-making skills in both menu and company selection. Needless to say the irony of life once again came to taunt us: all hope failed to deliver. Despite the hours of cooking, cleaning and organizing, the food was just as bland as the conversation. I was actually feeling sorry for my guests who dutifully sat as good sports would do, engaging with one another pleasantry for two long hours. I wondered if any of them peeked at that wall clock as much as I did. It was one of those surrenders you hate to take for pride’s sake at the same time you wish for its end for deliverance’s sake. And when the end finally came, the relief was always accompanied by shame and the inevitable frustration. We pretended to bury ourselves in the clean-up without exchanging words on the touchy subject. I think we even looked away from each other for fear that our eyes might betray ourselves. It doesn’t matter how many times you have done it, accepting or acknowledging failure never comes easy. Like sweeping the dirt under the rug, you want it out of the way and out of sight. Then again the lonely exile can only go so far when it comes to suffering. As aching as it may be, admission of defeat brings comfort among fellow comrades in a kindred spirit. So with the last dish put away and trash picked up some 15 minutes later, I could no longer continue on with the pretend and asked my partner-in-crime that same old question after every party: “did you have a good time?” His straight-through and not-at-all surprising “NO” brought the anticipated, instant relief and maybe even closure. I felt the burden vaporizing surely and steady. I set the dish washer to go and turned off the kitchen lights. I was ready to retreat. Yes, we have done it: we took on, tried and now it was time to own it – our bitter-sweet end.

Till next time.