I Went To An Adult Christmas Party
I’m on my way to a Christmas party whose tagline is “Think Christmas; be Christmas.” So naturally, I wear my Santa slipper socks and roll into the event with alcohol in hand. I arrive first, as one of my best friends is hosting the event. I walk into her kitchen and see plates filled with an assortment of delicious looking homemade treats. All I brought was a pack of winter ale. My friend tells me that many more people will be bringing homemade goods. I saw the post in her event about how people could bring food but I didn’t think it was mandatory. I’ll order pizza! Who doesn’t love pizza? So, I order the pizza and feel quite generous as a tight-on-cash 22-year-old student. Next thing I see is my friends’ roommate go to the kitchen and start cutting up vegetables. That’s cool, but I just ordered unhealthy pizza for everyone.
The parties I go to usually consist of a lot of alcohol, hilarious conversation, and loud music. If I’m lucky, there are chips. But this party looks like it’s shaping up to be a real live adult party. Something I have not experienced very often. Adult parties I’ve gone to have usually placed me in the ‘sit at the kids table’ category, not the ‘hey, I’m an adult, so let me whip up some homemade eggnog for this shindig’ category. I am not thinking this up on the spot, as I’m sitting on the couch watching a new guest take out a 12-pack of eggs and begin, literally, to whip up eggnog.
I’m seeing the homemade food, the Christmas decorated house, the person making eggnog, and I’m starting to become very introspective. I’m sitting on this couch staring at my Santa slipper socks unable to move or talk. I begin to question everything. Am I old? Am I supposed to be acting older? Should I be graduated from university already? What am I supposed to talk about? Can I not mention that time I drank too much tequila and almost broke my residence’s microwave? How do I get out of here? This is uncomfortable; maybe I should drink more.
The doorbell rings and I snap out of my short but brooding stupor. More guests walk in dressed in proper adult party outfits; blouses, button up sweaters, and one even in a suit. They look over at me, sitting on the couch, wearing Santa sock slippers and drinking beer out of a martini glass. The juxtaposition must have been a sight to see. I smile and wave, wishing the alcohol would take over so I’ll no longer have to compare myself to these mature beings. A married couple comes in with homemade cheddar ale soup and homemade bread “that has the leftover grains from their home beer brewing.” Do I associate with people like this now? These people have their lives together. They bring delicious homemade soup and bread to parties.
I was expecting a lot more people to pop in, already wasted from pre-gaming, wearing hilarious Christmas outfits. Maybe I’m not ready to be as adult as the people here, but I see the appeal. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking too much at this party. I’m beginning to enjoy it. I’m meeting great people and I’m having some great laughs. Gardening and home décor are not usually my favorite topics to converse about, but that’s okay. I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe where I’m being seen as a real adult, but deep inside, I’m really not.
Oh thank goodness — a guy wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and drinking out of a flask has just walked in. Better go be true to my 22-year-old self.
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This is the first part of a book that I am writing for Thought Catalog. This is a fiction book about young people in New York City. A lot of it is not fiction, and not made up, because I am not sure if I am very good at making things up.
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