On Accepting Invitations

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.