We take a seat in the posh bar for one last cocktail that neither of us needs. We continue to meander from topic to topic - J. and his nonsense, the kids caught in the crossfire, idiotic Sheila who neither of us had considered bothering to be friends with, Endorra and the tightly held secret that despite the pretty pink lipstick and careful boufant was a witch on a broom. We are like old friends. It is good to have it all out on the table and snark openly outside of earshot of impressionable kids.
While she is out having a cigarette, I look at my phone. I have gotten a text from my friend's husband who is throwing her surprise party the following night. He's in a panic trying to keep her in the dark and has fallen behind. If I'd like to, I can come to the house early and help him decorate, and then follow him to the restaurant so I don't get lost.
I reply that that would be great. I love their big old haunted house and would love to spend some time with its mouldings and mantles and hardwoods. And we have alread established that I am a terrible party pooper when I am lost. It will be nice to be spared the flop sweat. Of course I'll come early, I reply to him.
And then he does it. "Will you be bringing anyone with you?"
Why is this such a painful question to answer?
I want to hammer out on my phone the whole sordid story about how it is that I will be attending the party desperate and dateless and not by my own choice and isn't Scott hateful, but just the same you are welcome to seat me at the kiddie table or the table with the other desperados so the natural order of coupledom doesn't suffer at tables of eight.
But I don't. I just text, "Just me!" and keep it cheerful. If he hasn't been filled in on the details, I am not going to burden him with them myself.
Soon enough, Sandy returns, we drink to the bottom of our glasses, look around the room to assess the state of dateworthiness among the men on hand and make a pledge to come back together with a purpose. We are giggling like school girls as we walk to my car and I drive her to hers.
We both text each other when we are home safe and unharmed. It is nice to have even just a friend worry for you. It is one of the things I miss about Scott. Someone to worry about you.
After a restful night's sleep I am up early and on the move. Shopping. Wrapping. A jaunt in the State park to get my blood moving. And then it is time for the party.
It is an odd thing suddenly having to attend parties by myself again. Having to hope couples don't mind you glomming on to them and joining their conversations. Hoping not to look as obviously desperate as the guy at the next table who called a meeting at work to tell everyone his wife just moved out while he was at work one day and just left him a note. Or the divorcee who is also strategically seated at his table who has three young children who obviously have become her obsessive compulsive focus since hubby flew the coop. She needs to find something else to talk about and maybe do a little something with that hair if she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life hoping that at least one of her children fails to launch and stays home with her forever. Maybe a relaxer. Rick James had better hair.
But all in all, I manage quite nicely. Meet new people. Find my groove. Sit with the hilarious Jack and his boyfriend Kelly who hack into my Facebook account and post "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard" while I am in the ladies room. And later try to post a pic they've taken of the large man at the next table who is showing off his ass crack to the other party guests every time he sits down. Thank goodness I caught them before that went out into cyberspace.
I return home, happily jamming to iTunes in my car and thinking that the weekend is a rousing success. And that I have things planned for quite a few days in the coming week. I do believe I have recovered quite nicely.
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