I thought about this for a quarter of an hour. There are few things in life that make me irrationally anxious. Airplane flights are mini-vacations, where one is forced to watch movies in quick succession, between sips of ginger ale from plastic tumblers. No anxiety there. Heights? I like pretty views. Being burned alive? What are the chances? Besides, I hear you generally die from smoke asphyxiation first.
Just as I was about to congratulate myself on possessing an uncommonly reasonable mind, I remembered: cocktail parties.
Mingling. Looking fabulous. Small Talk. For the ten long months that I spent covering the fashion industry, cocktail parties were the bane of my existence. A dork at heart, a teetotaler, and a klutz with mascara, I saw cocktail parties as little doses of cyanide for my self-esteem, served in the form of champagne (that I couldn’t drink), hor d’ouvres (that made me fat), and chatty people (to whom I couldn’t think of anything to say).
Indeed, for several months, things did go awfully wrong. At a fashion week show, I somehow lent my reporter’s pad to a pair of friendly French sisters ‒ aged nine and four ‒ who drew me fantastically detailed outfits, complete with labels like “Pretty Lady!” This meant, of course, that I couldn’t take notes on Sonia Rykiel’s witty little sweaters, but I didn’t ask for my pad back. I was worried the children might get offended.
When dressing for a networking event, I popped my dress zipper just as my editor called to say that he had arrived at my apartment, and was waiting in a taxi. There was nothing to be done. I slipped a cardigan over the dress, hoped no one would notice, and spent the rest of the night surreptitiously feeling my side to see if the hole had gotten any bigger. It had, measuring about eight inches by the end of the night.
After slogging my way through months of such evenings, I began to think that perhaps I had finally mastered the art of casual socializing. So when a well-known public relations officer called to invite me to Shanghai Tang’s dinner and fashion show at a members’ only club, I breezily accepted. I was so ready.
I arrived in killer stilettos, confronting a crowd of strangers: the old, the rich, the portly, aging socialites with poufy hairdos. They all seemed to know each other. It was like I’d stumbled into one of my parents’ social obligation dinners by mistake.
When I saw a friendly acquaintance, I thought the evening had been saved. A former public relations princess herself, she politely introduced me to her companions: a tall German photographer who took goofy sartorial cues from The Matrix and a slouchy British journalist who radiated a careless appeal. We attempted the appropriate pre-dinner drinks and banter.
Conversation turned to the recent political demonstrations that, despite controlled violence, had seemed celebratory. Couples held hands in the streets as they chanted and waved banners. The sun was fine and bright, and free popsicles were distributed. Over cocktails at the club, I remarked, “It was like a cheerful spectacle ‒ sort of like a gay parade.” The British journalist rolled his eyes. “Oh really?” he replied archly. “I thought I saw a couple of cute boys there myself.” It was only then that I noticed he was wearing trendy Spanish bowling shoes and a button-up shirt printed with oversize flowers. I hadn’t meant it as a derogatory statement. I tried to parry. “Oh lucky you,” I chuckled lamely.
As we posed for society photographers, I managed to insult the journalist yet again, commenting that his clothes looked “as though he was too cool to dress up”. He’d been complaining that he felt scruffy, and it was meant as an encouragement ‒ but somehow its intent dissipated, and I sounded disapproving. The PR princess laughed nervously, and said, “Darling! Don’t say that, you’re in fashion!” British journalist ‒ now Cocktail Party Nemesis ‒ rolled his eyes again.
The others in the party were edging away, having marked me as a homophobe and fashion snob.
All my worst fears about cocktail parties were coming true. I felt ridiculously out of place, and no one wanted anything to do with me. I’d somehow misrepresented myself, and I’d been unintentionally hurtful. In hindsight, I probably should have been my earnest best and apologized, admitting social incompetence. But I was too embarrassed. Instead, I took numerous bathroom breaks to look busy, but probably just looked incontinent.
Back at my computer, under “Phobia,” I began typing “C-o-c-k-t-a-i” then erased the letters.
At that party, I’d been my worst self: insecure, immature, cowardly. I was at my worst, it was bad, and then I did the only thing I could think of: went to more parties. I went to birthday bashes where I didn’t know the hosts, only to say “Happy Birthday” to the wrong person. I went to dinners where my tablemate only spoke one-word answers. Each time, I’d had tremendous fun anyway.
I stared at my computer. I hate boring questionnaire answers. But there was really no alternative. I’d seen the worst, and it wasn’t that bad. Under “Phobia,” I typed, “n-o-n-e.”
