A few weeks ago, I got a text out of the blue from a family we’re friends with through the girls’ school. Let’s call them the Smiths.
It was a group chat with another family we’re friends with through school. Let’s call them the Johnsons.
First off, I adore both of these families. I’ve known their kids since they were in kindergarten and my youngest is now in 8th grade.
I see the Johnsons a bit more often than the Smiths. And since the separation in April, the Johnsons and I often talk about doing something together, but just haven’t been able to make it work.
So when the Smiths texted and asked if we wanted to come sit around a firepit and have some hotdogs and s’mores, I couldn’t believe it.
I don’t get invited to things like this. My parents did when me and my brothers were young. Both of my brothers have all kinds of friend groups they circulate through and have no shortage of invitations.
But me? I don’t get invitations.
Needless to say, I was VERY excited.
But also? I was quite scared.
I felt like I was taking part in a social audition for a role that is clearly not meant for me.
I write a lot about my social struggles. I’m told they are familiar to others and it’s nice to not feel alone with these feelings. If what I write about sounds familiar, stick around.
I find even the most mundane social exchange to be a daunting endeavor. Talking to people requires thinking on your feet, which I am simultaneously great and terrible at.
I’m great at it because I do not find it difficult to react and respond to other people.
I’m terrible at it because I find it incredibly difficult to filter my reactions and responses, often veering into subjects of dubious conversational value.
And while I can certainly fill a void, I have come to the conclusion that my unfiltered thoughts are not received well.
I was determined to not fuck this one up. I could be a great guest.
And he evening went pretty well. My oldest daughter Linny couldn’t go because of band, but Lottie (who isn’t a huge fan of social situations) did.
I made my spinach mac and cheese and everyone loved it (as evidenced by the large pile kept by the Smiths). We took turns sharing bits and pieces from our family history and enjoyed some hot cider and a warm fire on a pleasantly mild evening for late October.
As we said our goodbyes, we talked about doing it again at the Johnson’s next time, and then our house (😬). I felt incredibly optimistic that I made it unscathed through a real, serious, adult social outting.
When we left, even Lottie said she had a great time, which surprised me. And we’re both looking forward to the next hangout.
As we got in the car, I thought, “Ooooh, I need to send them a thank you text and tell them what a great time we had.”
…
…
…
Guess what happened net.
A few days later I got a text I dreaded.
It was from Mrs. Smith. She said how much fun she had and thanked us for coming to their house.
Guess what I finally remembered I needed to do at that precise moment.
But it was too little too late.
I don’t think the Smiths will actually hold it against me because they have such kind and generous spirits. But I know I fucked up and I am kicking myself for not observing this simple social courtesy.
I did thank them and talked about what a great time we had, but I knew I had failed yet again.
It’s like I somehow traversed the social tightrope perfectly to the very end, where I stepped onto the firmament and directly into cow shit that sent me tumbling over the cliff’s edge as I flail for the cable.
I hope I am right about the Smiths and the Johnsons being willing to give me another chance. When I see the Johnsons this weekend, I will say something about how bad I feel. I know that Mrs. Johnson has ADHD and will understand at least.
But I feel like I can’t really say that to the Smiths. It sounds like an excuse. My intention of texting them doesn’t matter. From their perspective, I just ate and ran, and I feel awful about it.
I’ve been wanting to build my social circles for a while, but it’s still hard. I scrutinize everything I do for signs of social missteps. I’m probably overthinking this too, but it doesn’t feel that way.
Rejection sensitivity is a relentless beast of rumination.
The Tightrope