Party Hard-ly

I usually do one party a year, which is usually the holiday party put on by the company my husband works for. This year offered good food, a decent live band, and the reminder why at 45, I consider my party days long gone.

I was such a dork. Thanks to a heavy-handed bartender, I was an even bigger dork. Sheesh, trying to party like I was 18, how stupid *roll eyes*. Ouch, that hurt. Note to self. Don't roll eyes while hungover.

Actually, being a dork is a natural state for me. I drink to mask my dork-ness in social situations. It doesn't work. I usually wake up the next morning asking myself, "Why?" Like I said, I'm such a dork.

And, then, at company parties, there is always the inevitable question, "And, what to you do for a living?" My reply of "Stay At Home Mom" must have some kind of hypnotic quality to it, the way the phrase glazes over most women's eyes. You'd thought I'd just started speaking in elvish, or something.

Oh, and the, "And what college does your kids go to?" Assumptive, much?

So, this morning as I type this, I am so glad that I am not a bar-hopper, or a party girl, or even a social butterfly (ha, as if I ever was) anymore. Trouble always followed when I rallied against my dork-ness, when I never accepted myself for the Holly GoLightly that I am not. No, I mean Auntie Mame. Give me wallflower status any day of the week. Yeah, yeah, I know, "the world is a banquet" and all that...I'm on a diet, thakyouverymuch.

So, I will spend the day in quiet solitude. Daughter #1 is off to play football, daughter #2 is sitting at her computer, my other half is off taking advantage of the warmish weather and flying his r/c planes, I'm surrounded by corgis, and last night is a dimming memory.

Now if I could only get rid of this fraking headache...yes, I said "fraking". I told you I was a dork.