Notes from the Coat Closet

“You must be fun at parties” is usually shorthand for “you seem like someone who would scold a balloon, and I don’t enjoy you.” For me, it’s an oddly specific field note.

It’s been seven hours and fifteen decades since I last socialized with any regularity.

I once was, if not the life of the party, the CPR dummy of it: dragged out, asked if I’m okay, inflated briefly, then shoved back in a suitcase until needed again.

Socializing is a muscle, and mine is atrophied because I’ve been on the couch since 2010. Still, I now RSVP to invites aspirationally. I picture Q-and-As sparkling, snacks excellent, and my hair behaving.

In reality, I’m the guest eating chips and dip in a coat closet.

Walk through an event with me. Or near me. Or, better yet, around me:

I prep, of course.

Step one: test-drive some jokes. I am a dancing bear. Dancing bears must dance.

Step two: polish up an elevator pitch about my latest project, which could be the Not-Great American Novel, a nervous breakdown, or cupcakes.

Step three: get dressed (multiple times). Telling me the dress code is casual isn’t helping. Neither is tacking on a word to it. Business casual? You might as well say formal casual, tractor casual, or funeral casual. I choose an outfit fit for the launch of a 1974 space capsule.

My husband is thoroughly briefed: if my grin goes stiff or I start scanning for trap doors, swoop in. When we arrive at the event, he beelines toward a group earnestly debating the finer points of mulch. I, on the other hand, walk into a coat rack while I scan for friendly faces.

There are fifteen people gathered in polite clusters. Ten hold drinks. Four are deep in conversation. One considers the cheese platter.

Conversation zigzags like it has somewhere to be and no idea how to get there. Everyone is nodding, so I nod too. I can’t be the only weirdo not co-signing. Yes, the municipal composting program is complicated. Yes, Pilates is the only thing keeping Marcy sane. Yes, there’s an alarming shortage of teaspoons. I may have agreed to join a militia. I’m uncertain because I am now also considering the cheese platter, mesmerized by a sexy Kaukauna.

It is during these fun, funny, and utterly disjointed conversations the true language of the night is spoken: couples’ signals. A raised eyebrow means rescue me. A discreet wrist tap is don’t tell that story. A quick mime of wiping teeth translates to spinach. A pointed look says oh no, Backsplash Guy is here. It’s a whole conversation under the conversation. I love it.

Then it happens. No one talks for seven full seconds.

BEHOLD! I am the Once and Future Resuscitation Jackie! I’VE GOT THIS!

I mine for stories, giggle at punchlines, toss out “interesting, tell me more” like so many Mardi Gras beads. Folks oblige and share things about how they feel about their HOA (a cabal!), Trader Joe’s (went for the Steamed Pork & Ginger Soup Dumplings, almost got killed in the parking lot!), and one neighbor who lost a finger to a salad spinner (Legend!). It’s great.

If I ask too many questions, I’ll be less talk show and more Law and Order: Social Victims Unit. No one wants to feel like they’re about to be cuffed and read their rights in front of the canapés. So, I watch for any quick eyerolls that say, Help, I’m trapped with this sentient game of 20 Questions wearing a zip-front A-line number.

Meanwhile, my thrives-at-parties husband floats by like a genial sea creature to refresh his drink. I blink in Morse code that I’m running out of questions about bird bath maintenance. I think he’s going to tap in! He does not.

So I persist, though out of steam.

Midway through a discussion about vacation rentals, my strapless bra, believing it was meant for greater things, heads south with dreams of becoming a belt. I do what anyone would do: try to harness it by squeezing my arms to my side, smile like nothing’s wrong, finish my drink, and plot my escape.

Bra somewhere around my thighs, I waddle into the coat closet for an adjustment and some crackers and dip I’ve strategically placed in my pockets for just such an emergency.

Socializing remains an extreme sport for which I am wildly unfit. Will I do it again? Absolutely. Bring on the Kaukauna.