Just days before Christmas, I was trapped at a holiday party. Mary’s friend from her furniture refinishing group hosted, and I knew no one, except our hosts. At 68, I figured I was the youngest guy there.
Within a few introductions, I realized I was marooned on an island. A few classical musicians talking about cellos. A chemical engineer explaining his computer chip-coating patents. My endurance test became the wastewater treatment engineer; I had been dealt a crappy hand. On top of this, I had to take off my shoes at the door. After a day of basketball, cleaning out the garage, and moving furniture for the church rummage sale, my tired feet were chirping at me.
To add insult to injury, this was a wine and champagne crowd. Not a Guinness in sight. With a smile on my face, I opted for a glass of white wine and settled in for a long winter’s night.
“You used to be pretty good at parties where you didn’t know anyone,’’ said my editor of 41 years. “Now you just ooze intolerance.’’
“I was there,’’ I retorted, “because that’s what good spouses do – smile and pretend they are engaged in a good time.’’
I carried myself well. I chatted about newspapers, sports, city schools and grandchildren. I listened to a 20-minute dissertation about sewage holding tanks and wastewater runoff. I listened to a pro football neophyte tell this former sports editor what was wrong with the Buffalo Bills.
I’m not a rookie at parties. My mettle was forged at Buffalo State College rugby parties, filled with off-color, bawdy singing. I graduated to a mid-20s-something party animal with Leo, Tom and Dizz at our rented farmhouse outside of Cleveland, where the neighbor was deaf and never raised an eyebrow when parties began after 1 a.m. newspaper deadlines.
Mary Holleran and Michelle Williams have been friends since they were newspaper editors together.
For the past 40 years, Mary and I have hosted our annual St. Patrick’s Day bash. The record for dispatching The Thing That Wouldn’t Go Home is 5:45 a.m.
Those parties embodied my crowds – liberal, Irish, sports intuitive, all with a certain degree of recklessness and zaniness.
On the flip side, New Year’s Eve is approaching. You never know which type of crowd you’ll land among, so I offer survival insights:
Keep moving: Before you become trapped in a corner behind a Christmas tree with no exit strategy, make sure you find a rush lane and keep an excuse handy. Bathroom? Drink refill? Pet the dog? “Oh, I just can’t resist those deviled eggs.’’
Change of topics: My favorite is “Do you travel much in retirement? Where have you been lately?’’ I also like to bring up The Shining, Stanley Kubrick’s horror film released in 1980. We were so broke we watched it about eight times once month on Showtime. We were reciting characters lines before they had a chance.
Before Scatman Crothers’ head chef character Dick Hallorann (I liked the name) could open his mouth, we would belt out: “ … we got a very serious problem with the people taking care of the place. They turned out to be completely unreliable assholes.”
Insult the person who is boring you: My friend Victoria once felt trapped in a conversation at a bridal shower while the woman lamented the bride’s choice of dresses and color theme. This went on for 30 minutes. Finally, Victorie blurted in frustration: “Maybe you should complain to someone you know, not someone you just met!’’ That ended that one-sided conversation.
Exit strategy: Mary and I have a pre-arranged signal, usually a slight head bob toward the door. In case we get separated, we often set an exit time too.
You’ll come off as an ingrate or a snob if you pull an Irish goodbye. That’s the tried-and-true method of my people, leaving without saying farewell. You simply disappear quietly without fanfare, about 10 minutes before anyone realizes you have left.
That brings us to our last topic.
Just say no: You shouldn’t feel compelled to go to a party simply because you were invited. My friend Michelle O’Donnell writes eloquently in her Facebook column, Dementia Dame, about risking relationship fallout while sometimes passing on parties.
As the host, you must realize some people are going to pass. Michelle’s advice:
- Don’t judge.
- Don’t ask a second, third or fourth time.
- Don’t say, “Well, if you change your mind … .’’
- Don’t make them feel badly or guilty.
- Don’t say, “Call me if you feel suicidal (true, I swear).’’
It’s almost New Year’s Eve. Smile. Shake hands. Don’t be a party pooper.
Slainte (slawn-che), Irish for cheers.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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