Burning Daylight

I have a confession that may cause me to lose friends or at least miss out on some social invitations. There’s a condition called “social anxiety disorder.” There are prescription drugs for it. (I’m not a pharmacist, but I play one at home.) I clearly don’t have a full-blown case of it because I’m comfortable speaking in front of large groups, I’ve been known to be the life of the occasional party, and I would tell my deepest secrets to the old crack whore in line next to me at a convenience store. However, when it comes to certain events (not only attending them but simply contemplating attending them), I can empathize with the unfortunate victims of this disorder. Here’s why:

I would prefer never to attend the following: daytime receptions, tea parties, banquets, buffet dinners, office parties, baby showers, wedding showers, children’s birthday parties, and parties where you feel obligated to buy jewelry, candles, or kitchen paraphernalia. Each type of gathering gives me a somewhat different yet equally uncomfortable level of social anxiety. Mostly because they make me feel like I’m burning daylight. Like I could be doing something more productive with my time such as cleaning out a closet or organizing a junk drawer or alphabetizing my spices again.

When my kids were younger, I dreaded play dates for the same reason. I would take my kid to the cluttered house of some homely woman (often a neighbor or acquaintance) with whom I had nothing in common except for the fact that our kids were the same age and perhaps attended the same Mother’s Day Out program. The idea was that the kids would get a chance to play off some energy while the burned-out moms could sit and commiserate as they chat over coffee about what brand of diapers they use, their harrowing labor and delivery experiences, or how to manage to take a shower before their husband got home. So there I would be, sitting at some sticky kitchen table, drinking bad coffee with someone I didn’t click with, and trying to shift the conversation toward something funny or interesting while her kid is shitting his pants, eating boogers, and drooling all over my kid’s sippy cup. I would surreptitiously glance at my watch and think that time must have stopped. My stomach would churn and burn as I thought about all the things I needed to be doing at that very moment and throughout those few precious hours, such as laundry, or dishes, or napping, or the rest of the laundry. I would tune out the dronings of this bedraggled mother as I imagined her sharing her boring anecdotes and bratty gripes with prison inmates or psychiatric patients. Just as I would think I was going to implode with the anxious ennui closing in on me, my toddler would start crying or otherwise need tending to. I would then use the child’s alleged “nap schedule” as my excuse to run screaming to the solace of my car. I would no doubt then heave a sigh and perhaps utter some obscenities as I peeled out of her driveway.

Sure, they say we should stop and smell the roses and that it’s good for the soul to take time out of your busy day to just relax and enjoy a cup of tea or read a book or perhaps engage in some sort of useless craft activity. I’m sorry, but I’ve got shit to DO. I don’t sleep well; I work 40 hours a week (more or less) except when I’m driving kids to and from their appointments or events. I go to the grocery store, the gas station, the carwash, the cleaners, and the post office. I drop crap off at Goodwill; I pick up prescriptions at the drug store; I get the car’s oil changed; I think about going to the gym. I visit my chiropractor, my dentist, my hair salon, and my psychiatrist. When I do have free time, I like to spend it making lists of what I need to do the next day. I don’t have time to dilly-dally or lollygag at some social gathering. Does this make me anti-social? I don’t think so. There are plenty of other settings that do not make me want to have diarrhea. Such as my office, my bathtub, sushi restaurants, shoe stores, and most bars.

I’m not sure what makes me think the details of my daily life are more important than spending time with a few friends and several strangers at celebratory gatherings. I don’t know why I start shaking at the sight of a punch bowl or why seeing an order form at a “party” makes me want to shoot someone in the face. I can’t fathom what it is that compels me to avoid interaction at these events by taking leisurely strolls to the bathroom and then lingering in there until someone bangs on the door to check on me two hours later. And I know it’s rude to ignore perfect opportunities for small talk by pretending I have important business going on in my phone. I guess I just can’t fake enthusiasm as well as everyone else.

When I get an invitation to any of the aforementioned events, the first wave of anxiety is all about the RSVP. Great, I think. The person who has been kind enough to include and invite me has also been so cruel as to impose an impossible deadline upon me. I used to be great with RSVPs. It never bothered me at all to look at a calendar and call or e-mail my regrets. Now, probably because of my children, I usually lose the invitation somewhere between the mailbox and the house. And e-mailed invitations get even less attention.

If I must actually attend one of these soul-sucking time wasters, and if a gift is required, then my next wave of stress comes from the gift selection process. I have been known to spend a good hour and a half agonizing about choosing the perfect toy for a kid in my daughter’s class whose name I have forgotten and whose parents I don’t even know and who is probably a spoiled little asshole. When it comes to baby or wedding shower gifts, one might think that the registry lists are helpful. And they are; don’t get me wrong—at least they give me some guidance. But the problem then becomes finding something on the list that is within your budget. If I want to spend $50 on a wedding gift, it’s inevitable that the registry will only offer up items well above that price or a plethora of suggestions so far below it that I end up buying the happy couple a $20 knife, a $15 saucer, a $10 set of dish towels, and a $5 pot holder. If I want to spend $30 on a baby gift and run into a similar dilemma, I opt for a gift card and hope that the new mother is able to go shopping either before or after she finds herself housebound with a screaming infant, leaking breasts, and a torn up vagina.

When it comes to the contrived parties that are actually shopping-by-peer-pressure, I get a whole nother form of angst. I feel like I owe it to the hostess to buy something to compensate her for all the trouble she went to, what with the veggie tray and fancy napkins and box wine and all. I see all the other women oohhing and aahhing over this necklace or that gadget or this baking stone or that potpourri. I scan the catalog for something affordable that I also might not mind having. Of course, the things that are affordable are useless and would end up in my next garage sale. The things I wouldn’t mind having cost much more than I wanted to spend, seeing as how I didn’t really intend to go shopping that night. I usually end up spending too much on something I would never buy under any other circumstance, even with a gun to my head. As I turn in the order form, I feel instant remorse and regret. Along with an urgent need to empty my bowels. When I see the charge on my credit card bill a couple of weeks later, I suffer a flashback of that same remorse, regret, and urgency. Then, when the dreaded item arrives about six weeks later, there I go running with my angst to the bathroom again.

The bottom line is: If given the choice between attending one of these events and staying home, I would always prefer to stay home. And eat shards of broken glass. I might even rather sit through another Lord of the Rings movie or endure some opera or Broadway musical than subject myself to this slow torture. Will this diatribe decrease the number of invitations I find in my mailbox? I doubt it. I may spend two hours in their bathroom, but people still want me at their parties. Mostly because when I go, I buy something.