A couple of weeks ago I went to a Pirate Party. You know - one of those parties where the host decides that the best way of socializing their different groups of friends is to force them all to dress up in half-assed theme costumes in a vain attempt to put them all on the same playing field – a playing field where everyone looks like idiots. Yeeeah – you got it. And, furthermore, I am one of those people who hates meeting new people. Especially when there is a bunch of new people. AND even more when I am dressed like a weak attempt at something I deemed a “Parisian Pirate”. So at this point it seems needless to say that I was a little less than ready to make my grand entrée onto the jolly deck of this merrymaking-shindig. The day building up to the big event for me was filled with apprehension and high hopes of a mysterious last minute pirate cancellation. (“I know, who would’ve guessed that there would be a massive recall on all things pirates on today of all days?!”) Too clarify this wasn’t because I don’t like the people throwing the Pirate Premise Party (I am actually quite fond of them); it has much more to do with the slew of neuroses and unjustified anxieties that inhabit my body every second of every day.
Consequently a day of anxious anticipation slipped into a nerve-racking evening which skidded into a night of dread. A beret, black and white striped shirt, eye patch, boots, and a two and an half foot long alligator accessory complete with alarm clock later, I found myself standing on the porch of the Buccaneer Bash with my well-respected, fairly dignified genius of a friend urging me to be the first to walk in – all while staring me down with his un-eye patched eye, his hand placed ready to run me through with his Plastic Pirate Dagger tm. Neither of us wanting to be the first one to cross the threshold to find out the answer to the question: Are we overdressed, underdressed, or at the wrong house?
“Do we just walk in?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Well, we could just ring the doorbell.”
“Ok – go ahead.”
(A moment after no one responds to the doorbell) “Uhhh . . . we should probably just walk in.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Okay, so go ahead.”
“Me? It was your idea!”
“I drove! You go in first!”
“Um, how about I’ll just send the hostess a text message for her to let us in?”
(Unmoving and making no motion to resolve the situation) “Now you’re being ridiculous.” (Eagerly awaiting a response.)
And so on and so forth until I heard what sounded like peg-legged, unscrupulous rogues making their way down the street preparing, I’m sure, to make a much more calm and composed arrival.
“Quick!” I panickedly pleaded. “Just go in before they get here!”
Moral of the story: If a genius cannot function at a Pirate Party in the same way in which I am unable, then I’m doing alright.
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