Sunday, July 30, 2006

Party Pooper

Strangest night. Surrounded by people and a party I just can't get into. What does it mean when you're more motivated, energized, and just downright interested in picking up trash and empty glasses at a party than talking to people?

It's hiding, but it feels so productive! So much more satisfying to make order out of chaos than to try to broker a connection with anyone while yelling and trying desperately to remember a name and/or where on earth you know this person from.

As much as I love community, I'm terrorized by interactions at this level. I hate answering questions -- even good ones because how are you really supposed to trust that this person cares what you do when they're one spotting away from leaving you to talk to someone more interesting or attractive? You can't. And so I duck and cover.

Behind me, a band with woman singer is warming up. In front of me, a techno beat keeps time in the next room, making only the ice cubes dance in their own little glass cages.

In these moments, I feel so unfit to be an adult. I assumed that having fun at parties was something you grow into -- like enjoying wine or learning about mortgages. I remember all the parties I witnessed as a kid and how fun it looked. My mom's rosy cheeks. The neighbors leaving in the wee hours, their kids crashed out in front of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in heaps.

Now? I think how good a book and cool bed would feel. How I enjoy conversation over coffee. How sometimes even a girl breakfast is too much. On the spectrum of introverted to extroverted, as strange as some of my friends might think this is, I'm actually an introvert. Being around people is ultimately draining, even though I can catch a buzz off it under the right circumstances. Right now I've got nothing to give people, and all I want is for no one to ask anything of me.

I see empty glasses; time to go.

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