Antisocial Butterfly

I went to a party the other night.

I almost didn't go. Athough I was excited in the days leading up to the party, I felt funky and blue on the night of the event. It didn't help that I decided to take a nap at 3 pm and woke at six, groggy and disoriented. It didn't help that I'd had a splitting headache all day long. It didn't help that it was raining that night, an occurence that prevents people in Los Angeles from doing all sorts of things, from going to work to casting their ballots.

But I decided to go. How many party invitations are extended to chronically depressed home-office workers anyway? How often do I get invited to a ping-pong party at a glass artist's studio? The potential for destruction alone made the whole thing worth it.

The Friday-night rush-hour traffic was grueling, and it took 75 minutes to travel less than 10 miles. I arrived very late and the other party guests had already created fully formed conversational knots. Playing ping pong seemed like way too much effort.

After less than two hours, I'd had enough. My headache had intensified until it felt like I was going to burst a blood vessel. I said goodnight to the other guests and headed home.

But oddly enough, once I was home again and snuggled in bed with the dogs, it felt like a success. I had managed to get dressed, travel across town in the rain, and make pleasant conversation at a time in my life when everything except the bare necessities, and often even those, requires herculean effort. Sometimes going through the motions is the best we can do, and somehow, that's enough.