I am not big into socializing (the fact that I blog should have clued you into that). I have a close knit group of friends and family that I love and trust with everything that I am. And that is it. I have no desire for more because truthfully I find anything more to be to exhausting.
Well, Butt Boy is not only an extrovert, he is the worst type of extrovert. He is the extrovert who thinks he is an introvert. I come from a family of introverts (you can find us pretty easily in any social gathering, just look for the ones standing off in the most secluded spot possible, trying to block out the sensation of being over stimulated). I know what an introvert is and what they are not. And let me tell you, an introvert does not throw a party of 40+ people for their birthday. Hell, an introvert probably doesn't know 40 people.
So, Butt Boy threw a birthday party for himself and two friends (who had birthdays right next to his) and invited me to attend. I hemmed and hawed over it before finally deciding, why not? At the very least it could be my new thing for the week. The theme of the party was cheese. Yep, cheese. And thanks to my wonderful sister and her girlfriend who suggested it, I brought with me lovely little stuffed tomato caprese salad bites. I picked out the perfect outfit- comfortable, complimenting, and simple. And I held many a long conversation with my sister and her girlfriend regarding the various social protocols I never was indoctrinated into because I have avoided parties like the plague.
I knew the appropriate amount of food to contribute, the expected small talk conversation starters, and the acceptable amount of non-drinking and eating (because I was beyond anxious). I was ready.
It was right before I left for the party that I realized I had over looked one crucial social protocol debriefing- to knock or not to knock? At what point does a party become big enough that you just walk into the house? You see, as an introvert, no one is allowed to just walk into my house. Not even my most loved and trusted. They better damn well knock on the door that bars the rest of the world away from me. So, since I have no experience with this knocking protocol I was pretty clueless. Obviously if you are the first to arrive you knock, but what if you're the last? Then the party is in full swing and they might not even hear your knock. After a brief conversation it was decided that I should knock, wait, and then if no one answers enter.
So I had the outfit, the food, the social protocols, and even a knocking plan in place. I was ready. I made my way over to the party and as soon as I turned onto the street, my stomach dropped. The street was packed with cars. I could hear the house was loud with voices and I felt bile rise into my throat. The urge to run was overwhelming, but I held fast and walked up to the door. And, as luck would have it, he was outside so I even got to avoid the knocking dilemma.
I can only liken the feeling I had upon entering the house/party as what I would imagine someone walking down death row to their lethal injection would feel. Sheer dread. I was there for no more than 15 minutes (half of which was spent going out to my car for a fake reason) before fleeing like the building was on fire. So just to recap:
- $30-$40 for my food contribution
- 1.5 hours of cutting, gutting, and stuffing cherry tomatoes
- 2 hours of social protocol training and outfit determination
- 2 hours of driving (1 hour each way)
- $10 in gas for those trips
- 15 minutes at the party (7 of which was me faking a reason to go to my car)
