I went to two social events this weekend on my own. The first was in the town centre, where the late afternoon sun still lit the treetops and the brickwork of the town hall. The streets were cool with shade as I walked from the train station to the bar.
I rounded a corner, and ran straight into two colleagues from work. They were off somewhere together, heading in the other direction. We had a little chat. I explained I was about to meet my friends for drinks. Nell cheekily asked me why I wasn’t going to a writing session to finish my time-travel book. I laughed, wished them a great weekend and made my way.
A funny thing happens to me on the way to social occasions. I start off okay, even quite excited. Then I go there and get all weird about the mechanics of turning up on my own.
Now. Some people are seriously brilliant at this. They walk into the room like the Fonz. The atmosphere breathes a sigh of relief, as though an alarm just went off to let everyone know that the party can, now indeed, begin. And they high-five and joke and moonwalk in, and it’s like they’ve brought a samba rhythm with them to enjoy while everybody cheers their arrival.
I got close to the bar. It was classy. A piano stood in the middle of the softly-lit area, and tables of classy, crisp white-shirted people spilled out into walkway, with the summery buzz of a mediterranean piazza. I pulled my phone out. That’s what you do surely. It’s this point when the insecurity grabs me. Am I in the right place? Am I on-time? Am I under-dressed? Was I supposed to bring something?
I couldn’t see my friends. Anxiety bubbled. So I held my phone to my ear and started talking to myself. I thought that might be the easiest way to look cool, pretending to be on the phone. No-one would notice.
“So yeah, it was probably the owl,” I said. It’s kind of weird talking to nobody. How do actors do this?
Pause.
“No, wrapped up. Five pound note. I know right. In honey. So what’s your plan?”
Pause.
“Mmhm.”
Pause. Nod. Eyes flick left and right.
“He lives on the hill, I think. You know the one where the er, the bong tree goes. A year and a bit. With a ring. Yeah, oh, okay. See you later. Yeah, quince, yeah. It’s like a jam. Sure. Laters. Bye.”
I took a deep breath, puffed out my chest, reminded myself that I can walk in anywhere with confidence, that no one has the right to make me feel inferior (Eleanor Roosevelt said it), and that I can be awesome.
It worked out. Within a moment, the anxiety faded and it was all perfectly fine.
The second event was a barbecue. I got halfway there and realised it was way too hot to walk. I was already sweltering, but it was too late to change my mind. I was going to a house I’d only been to once before. I started plotting a way I could get there by walking completely in the shade. Anxiety bubbled.
I can’t help thinking it’s much easier to arrive with somebody else. But as soon as I start wondering that, I remind myself that you’re supposed to learn this lesson at the school disco, not when you’re 40. It’s almost embarrassing to write about it, but there it is.
Perhaps it isn’t easier at all. Perhaps arriving with someone has its own troubles. Perhaps rather than pretending to be on the phone, the both of you have to steel yourself to pretend that you’ve not just been arguing and are really annoyed with each other.
I arrived, waved at a few people, and sat down, ready to blend into the delicious background of everyone-else-already-there. Once that bit is done, the whole thing is a lot simpler and less pressurised. I doubt I’ll ever be the Fonz, or make an entrance like Michael Jackson. But you know what, the more I think about it, the more I wonder whether those people are just as insecure before they arrive, but are really really good at pretending not to be. In which case, I’m already a step ahead, just by being closer to being myself.
Take that, Fonzy.
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