So you want me to come to a party?
For those of you who move past the stock excuses and decide to go out long enough to take snappies to convince yourself later you had an awesome time, there’s at least one excuse you have to come up with eventually: how to leave without anyone getting annoyed or butthurt.
Ya know, I forget all that proper social etiquette because I don’t do these things that often. But that doesn’t matter apparently – because the appropriate cocktail farewells seem to vary – depending on who you talk to and who’s holding the shindig in question. My southern belle buddy who posted about this on Facebook said she prefers people to bid her adieu pre-departure. Yet this sentiment accompanied an opposite-opinion article she’d shared about how it’s actually really annoying for a host to have to interrupt their current convo to make you special, stop the world , and say goodbye – over and over.
I say… that’s stupid. I mean, you’re entitled to your opinion. But all’s I’m saying is… it’s wrong. It’s wrong because we (the people who’ve taken time out of our schedule when we could be stress eating or napping or ranting on the fake party that is social media instead of coming to your dumb IRL one that’s pretentiously trying to look like a Gossip Girl soiree and falling mortifyingly short) can’t read minds. Sure, we can read social cues.
Well… most of us. For most things.
Some kinda suck at it.
But according to what I’m seeing, even these are a crappy gauge to go by when it comes to how to gracefully get your ish and leave. If everyone else is stopping through to say goodbye, then “reading the room” would be – me joining in with the intoxicated flock of sheep ready to call it a night.
Right?
But now I’m reading that this practice is somehow inconvenient to the intense dialogue you’re having with four other night-owls which sounds more like a hen-house. Can you even hear each other?
#icant
Quick question before you all return to talking about how much better eachother’s kids are than each other: Does this oh-so-important conversation you’re having involve talking someone off a ledge? Negotiating a hostage situation? Finding your daughter who’s been stolen into sexual slavery and explaining to her kidnapper about your special skills?
No? Okay, then! Great news! Because it means that if we took the time to get outta sweats and walk on pointy playground slides we’re strapped into for a whole night so you could feel like a desperate Stepford housewife, then you sure as shiz can multitask your idle chat about nada by adding in a tokenistic farewell.
Bottom line? We’re not telepathic. And even if we were we’d still be too goddamned tired to squander it figuring out whether you’d like us to slither silently from your cocktail party or kowtow in reverse all the way out the door.
So screw your social cue Rubik’s cube and you can get over your damned self.
’cause all’s I wanna do is go home, eat my feelings, and pass out in a party dresses.
Kisses! <3