Ah, the holidays. Filled
with food, drink, annoying music, and invitations for all manner of gatherings.
The thing about an invitation – and this is important – is that every single
one requires a response. The good news is that you still have options.
Take the verbal.
This one usually comes in person as a casual mention. You can accept, decline,
or smile and say, “That sounds lovely. Thank you.” You’re then open to make a decision based on what sort of
hair day you’re having on the soiree date.
The eVite requires
a bit more decisiveness. Yes. Maybe. No. If you’re on the fence, I would
suggest clicking Maybe. This leaves your options open in case something else
comes up while not appearing ungrateful for making The List.
Finally, there’s
the old school paper invitation. You remember, the kind that shows up in your
mailbox located close to the street. This one requires a firm decision before
the RSVP date. A decision that no matter what, you cannot change.
[Sidebar: Every
invitation requires some sort of response to which you are committed – no
matter what. Now, stay with me. This is not a lesson in etiquette. That post
can be found at Tis the Season… To Mind Yourself, December 2012.]
was one of these that landed in my BFF’s
hands, leaving her mouth agape at the inappropriateness of its receipt. At that
moment, there was only one course of action. She shoved it into the bottom of
pocketbook, raced the three miles to my house, grabbed a bottle of wine from
the fridge, then shoved the invitation under my nose. She poured. I read.
I’ll admit, it took
a moment for my brain to register the unsuitable nature of the request on ivory
stock I was holding. A holiday cocktail party at the home of Mr. Wildly Misbegotten
Decision made years ago.
“Clearly I’m your
plus one,” I told her. I was going to throw myself under the bus on her behalf.
After all, you never let your BFF walk into a lion’s den alone – or
unsupervised. There could be repercussions. Or a need to get the shovels from the shed and the map from
beneath the mattress.
On the appointed
evening, we arrived about 45 minutes late in an effort to blend in with the
crowd. We handed off our coats, and as BFF went to present our host’s wife with
the bottle of wine she’d chosen, I accepted a passing glass of wine and
surveyed the territory.
Crossing the
threshold, my BFF asked, “Why does it feel like everyone will be staring at me
like my boobs are out?”
I meandered into
the living room, raising my glass to inconspicuously peer through the bottom to
survey the crowd… then choked. Loudly. I set the crystal on the fireplace
mantel a bit harder than intended as I stepped between BFF and the other guests.
“Don’t panic. Don’t look around. Hey! Eyes on me! The summer after your divorce
– the one during which you had that unfortunate tryst with our host – well, get
your coat. The trampage has come home to roost, and I’m counting four
cockadoodle-doos!”
Trampage – v.
Refers to that period post-long term relationship when a gal grabs her life by
the balls again then sets out to exercises everyone else’s.
“No!” she whispered,
eyes wide.
“Yes,” I hissed.
“Four???”
“Affirmative. And
it’s still early. So I repeat, get your co…”
“Hey you two! Wow!
It’s been a long time. BFF*, didn’t think I’d see YOU here.”
Oh, balls. The
horror was officially unleashed.
BFF turned slowly,
and though she smiled in that pleasant manner our grandmothers taught us, there
was no color left on her face that hadn’t been artfully applied the hour before.
It took two more
glasses of wine matching the number of horrifically uncomfortable
conversations to be had before we
made what can only be described as our less than elegant departure – given that
it consisted of grabbing our coats and literally racing down the sidewalk at
the top speed afforded by 4” heels.
Destination: first
bar. First round: “Patron! Stat! And hold the fruit unless he has a shoe
connection!”
This cautionary
tale has been brought to you by women who really should know better than to
accept an inappropriate invitation… of any kind.
