I remember getting invited to a dinner party weeks in advance of the actual occasion. Such a foreign gesture. Maybe because I was still straddling that sliver of time separating my adolescence and the rest of my life. Or perhaps this was just how true adults invited each other over to their homes? The apartment belonged to two guys I knew through work. They were barely two years older than me but they really seemed to have their shit together. They owned nice things, like color coordinated kitchen appliances from Williams-Sonoma and a long black dining room table. Their bathroom was doused in expensive candles and they had art hanging in their hallway. I was slightly nervous to show up stag so I brought one of my good girlfriends. The host made us his “special” cocktail. I think he could sense that my friend and I were eager to alleviate our social anxiety. A few sips in and my nerves started to dissipate. I felt my face starting to warm up while I listened to their circle of friends tell me about their jobs in fashion and art and music. My feelings of mild inadequacy were overshadowed by the joy I felt from being around smart people. I pretended to know more than I did about some of their obscure references. I told them stories about California and my past life of selling yoga pants. We laughed a little bit together and a little bit at my expense. They solicited advice or perhaps they could sense that I was fishing. They gave me restaurants to try and exhibits to see and weekend trips to take. There was something so cathartic about exchanging stories and insecurities with strangers I may never see again. By the end of the night they had exposed some of their shortcomings too and even the aloof girlfriend sitting on my end of the table found something she could talk to me about.
