I often say that I’m not a party-person.
After sending a note to a friend, where I mentioned I avoid parties, I got to thinking.
(This is not about Democrats and Republicans, though I’m not fond of those kinds of parties, either.)
What is a party? If I’m not going to like ‘em, I should define what I don’t like. Don’t you think?
Small dinner parties are fine. Eight or fewer people can have a meaningful conversation, and even benign conversations will at least leave me with a sense of connection.
As soon as that word, connection, popped in— I realized what sort of parties bothered me: the ones where a connection was not possible.
You know what I mean, right? Even if you like to go and let loose at such, you must know what I’m talking about. The ones that are all Rah-Rah-Boom-Boom-Hop-Hop--isn’t-it-swell-and aren’t-we-swell-to-be-here gatherings.
Only the young’uns replaced the word “Swell” with “chill.”
Either way, it’s a form of feeling part of something, which always left me feeling less part of anything.
Nothing makes me feel lonelier than a large, noisy gathering. Being alone in my room feels less lonely.
I can’t find a word for my affliction. It’s not a phobia, fear of crowds, or social anxiety per se. It’s a dislike, such as you may have for eating sardines. (Yes, I picked that one because sardines get crowded, too.) I don’t break into a cold sweat, and I appear functional. You wouldn't know I didn't belong.
And afterwards I feel emptier than before.
This post is a long-winded way of explaining why you won’t find me at rallies, birthday mega-bashes, marches, galas, or national conventions.
You will find me here, writing just to you.
Incidentally, this is my #300 blog post, and this is the party for it.