~A Spinster on a Saturday Night~
INVITATION: Casual cocktail party. Bring nothing but yourself. Those seven words become a nimbus that drifts above the heads of the socially awkward, forecasting bad weather ahead.
RATIONALIZATION: I should attend for career reasons. One must socialize here and there to keep one’s face in front of those who might hire a gal. It’s a survival tactic.
The thought of it ignites a blowtorch in my intestines.
PREPARATION: On the subject of intestinal issues, I’m reminded to do six sets of ass kegels to prepare for fart suppression after cramming my face with cheese. I’ve not been amongst people for some time.
As I sidle up to the mirror, I don’t see a moderately successful woman with passionate opinions about Bergman films and 90s action blockbusters. My eyes go straight to frown lines, frayed hair, and too much stomach—all mashed into a cartoon figure standing paralyzed in a middle-school hallway as she debates whether to eat lunch alone again on the baseball field or sit at the edge of some clique’s bench and hope to remain unnoticed or at least tolerated until the bell rings again.
HYPOTHETICAL SITUATIONS & SOLUTIONS: When I find myself standing alone for too long and it becomes noticeable, I'll find a nearby bookshelf and browse. This is also a fabulous cover for imbibing a sufficient amount of whiskey that’ll allow me to strike up a conversation with an extrovert, during which I’ll unleash a weird and slightly amusing non sequitur, and the person who laughs will thereafter refer to me as ‘weird and funny.’ I’ll do this with a few people and exit early, saying vague goodbyes to nobody and chuckling as if I’ve had to extricate myself from a fun exchange.
“That’s the spirit,” I shout at my reflection.
Ugh, my reflection. I look as good as I’m going to get, but decide that the red glass bead necklace is too ‘Aunt Martha from Toledo,’ and fling it onto a bed filled with a half-dozen discarded outfit choices.
***
THE PARTY: One way of viewing this younger group churning about me in fits of intense conversation and raucous laughter is that I am a great celestial body around which they all orbit. They needn’t interact with me. The sun isn’t privy to the minutiae of Mars. The Moon doesn’t tell Earth a funny story about being a writer’s assistant on a new talk show—its job is to maintain ellipses.
But I can't deny it. My hypothetical scenario has come to pass. I'm solo, and it feels and (probably) looks weird. The few stabs at inserting myself into various conversations failed. I'd stood just off to the side, nodding as though agreeing with whomever was speaking. Nobody acknowledged me. Guess I'm a ghost. Or a yard monitor on a playground, silently prowling through hordes of children. I'm sure I look like a creep, too. In a minute, it’ll go from weird to pitiable, in which case some kind empath will notice my isolation and attempt to make conversation with me. That is always awkward. I’d rather be a ghost.
Despite a real impetus to abandon my drink and slink out the door, I head to the dining room. The goal is to find low-carb, high-fat finger food I can stuff in my mouth, fast and sneaky. Something that pairs well with whisky. As I near the elegant mid-century cherry wood dining table, joy fills me at the sight of several epic charcuterie boards filled with cheeses, fruits, thin-sliced meat, and crackers. I love all these foods.
Above all, though, is cake. My greatest love. Sheet cake. Birthday cake. Supermarket cake. Single-serving liquor store cake encased in plastic. Wedding cake. Lumpy amateur cake. All cakes. So it only stands to reason that the angels hum when I spot the gigantic chocolate cake displayed at one end of the table—a beauty so perfect it must be bakery-made. How it glistens under the light of the vintage milk glass chandelier. My carb-starved flesh-bag quivers at the idea of being a Lilliput and making angel’s wings in its dark fondant.
Meandering closer, I pin a smile to my face that evokes an ‘I enjoy being here’ vibe rather than belying the gluttonous fantasy of pulverizing cake chunks against the roof of my mouth. What’s the etiquette? Since this isn’t a birthday party, may a guest devirginize the cake? Or is that left to the host? How big a Party Fail would it be if I cut myself an Applebee’s-size chunk and made animal noises while devouring it?
“Hey-ho, lady Jane!” A figure throws a shadow over my path. I screech back to reality in the way a loud clap disengages someone from hypnosis. Hovering over me is Forsythe, a rangy pony of a woman who holds conversations while scrolling her phone.
We chat at parties. Rather, she interviews me with an odd intensity before losing interest and wandering on to shinier baubles. I’ve nursed a theory about her being a sociopath who's learning the ways of normal people by practicing at parties, babbling about what shows people should watch, or dropping a humble brag while describing some task she’s been called to do for an important person.
“Forsythe, hi…”
“How are you?” she asks in a condolatory tone, eyes locked on her screen. Why? Why this tone? She is far too self-centered to have noticed my reclusion. Hmm. Was I considered then rejected for a job without knowing it? Did someone comment on my crap career? Is the anti-wrinkle make-up clumping under my eyes?
But I got this—with some help from Suntory whiskey.
“Do you think it's wise to stand between me and cake?” Not a non sequitur, though self-deprecation is always a hit. Forsythe erupts into giggles so fierce that cartoon bubbles should be shooting from her orifices. “You laugh, but I will end you if you keep me from grabbing a chunk.” I might mean it. I might murder her if she doesn't move her lanky ass.
“Oh my God, I love when you’ve had a few drinks,” she says.
“Why?”
“You usually have this, like, air of sadness about you, except when you drink. Then you get all glowy and I dunno, like...unscathed by whatever’s”—she waggles gangly fingers at my general visage—”going on.”
“Huh.” I’m a genius with the retort.
“You’re so pretty.” She reacts to a message on her phone; stifles a laugh.
“All right. Thanks.”
“Oh my God, now I’ve ruined it. Did I shit on your rainbow? Are you going to be sad? I don’t want to make you sad or anything…”
“Nah! You’re a fresh Spring rain. Anyhoo, I was making a pilgrimage to the cake and then to the exit. But it was nice running into you, crazy lady.”
“What’s your mother’s name again?”
“Did I ever tell you her name? Why?”
“It’s what I’ll call you to protect your identity when I tell Dolph and Joey about what an idiot I am. I mean, I just wanted to give you a compliment, but I insulted you. I mean, you aren’t a total sad sack when you’re sober or anything, it’s just a feeling I get sometimes…I dunno…sad waves…I mean…I dunno. Sorry.”
“No, no.” I wave off her comment, wishing I had the power of telekinesis so I could fling her against the wall with a flick of my hand.
“I love the color of your hair,” she persists. “It’s like three colors. What’s your favorite color, not hair, just in general?”
“Oxblood brown.”
“That’s random.”
So she wants to know my mother’s name, and my favorite color. Either she’s going to steal my identity, or figure out my actual birthday so she can tell people I’ve been lying about my age.
“Do you know any super cheap animatic editors? We’re looking for one for this cartoon and you’ll never guess who’s doing the voice of the world’s biggest boobs—”
“Nope. Wish I did.” I spy an opening in the crowd and scoot by her. “Great to see you, Forsythe.”
"Did I upset you? Am I like your cake cock blocker?"
“No! If you were a dessert, you’d be white cake made from scratch and drizzled with Skippy peanut butter and dollops of Fluff.” I meant it to hurt her—either in this moment or some time in the future when she figures out the difference between Skippy vs. Laura’s Scudder peanut butter and the inherent inauthenticity of Fluff. Instead, she guffaws and takes a selfie with me. Of course, I’m in front, meaning I’ll be the spitting image of a sweaty manatee.
“Okay, bye-bye.” I give a half-hearted wave, and weave through the crowd, over to browse the bookshelf. My eyes fly past titles—many Oprah and Reese Witherspoon book club picks, a Don DeLillo; there’s a George Saunders, a bunch of classic graphic novels… and a Didion for the win. The letters in the titles blur and rearrange themselves until all I see are the words: 'Your air of sadness.' Leave it to a sociopathic child to identify your depression with a glib remark.
Does everyone think I have an air of sadness? Is it palpable? Do I need more than St. John’s Wort? Do I need actual medication? Ugh, time to leave. I smile, toss my head back as if responding to a spectacular punchline, and slink out the door.
After a last sip of whisky, I discard the highball next to an ironic garden gnome statue, and wobble across cobblestones towards the street, glancing at the front window as I pass. Goodbye, charcuteries, goodbye handsome young men with cheese cubes on napkins. So long, Forsythe, looming over your next victim. And the saddest of farewells to the untouched chocolate goodness, which none of those skinny beau monde hipsters are going to even sniff at.
***
AFTER-PARTY: Eating at Denny’s alone on a Saturday night adds depth to a gal. It says you have the balls to be alone and eat alone. At Denny’s. My viewpoint is archaic; I’d seen dozens of young women with a meal and a glass of wine chatting on their phones while alone at a restaurant. Not a Denny’s, though.
It's chilly and fluorescent and I’m grateful my coffee arrives first. They’re probably still microwaving the lava for the chocolate lava cake. My eyes wander the underpopulated place, landing on a family at a rectangular table. An old woman in a wheelchair at the end. Though she inhabits the space normally occupied by a patriarch or matriarch, this seems more of a ‘where to park grandma’ situation.
Through the billows of my coffee steam, I watch her stare out the window, impervious to the boisterous conversations of her family. Sorrow? Memories? Detachment? Disinterest? Or is it because nobody thinks to include her?
My plate of chocolate lava cake clanks down, and I look up at my teenage server. “Can you send this over to the old lady in the corner, but don’t tell her who it’s from?”
“Oh...kay,” they pick up the plate.
“No, wait, tell her it’s from a secret admirer.”
“Sick.” They flash old-school silver braces before crossing the dining room.
Before any of the family, or grandma herself, can wheel around to find the sender, I’ve tossed a twenty on the table and am halfway to my car.
Once safe and seat-belted inside, I wonder: Do people with airs of sadness eat cake alone? Do happy people eat cake alone?
“Of course they do!” I toot my horn and start the car, knowing that in my cupboards and fridge are baking chocolate, flour, eggs, powdered sugar—all the stuff.
I’ll make my own damn cake.
*That wonderful drawing is by Heather Kenealy