I am noticing signs of a nascent sense of personal freedom. I want to believe it is from the time and energy I’ve invested in therapy, self-help books, and a recovery program. It may also be that I have matured (aged) to the point where I am finally more comfortable with my imperfections, and care less about what other people think. While so many are immersed in life extension tactics, I’ve been focused on life acceptance strategies.
I am reminded of a surprise party we recently attended. It was hosted at a large modern home similar to what I might come across in a designer magazine. The rooms that seemed to have no ceilings were bold and white, with tasteful art on the walls, sculpted light fixtures, and strategically placed furniture pieces. Not too long ago, I would have felt too small and overwhelmed in such an opulent setting.
I knew only a few people in attendance. The popular and go-to conversation topics were golf, health and travel plans. Barely in the door, we stood beside a couple neither of us knew and attended to a spontaneous download of their two-week trip to Portugal coming up next week. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision; they usually go for a minimum of 3 weeks or a month. He in a navy blazer and grey slacks, she in the requisite black pants and white blouse. It reminded me of visits to private clubs when I was younger and felt awkward and out of place. Do these shadows ever disappear?
I ventured to the lower level, with trepidation and care as the stairs appeared to float, tethered to glass panels with black bolts. My red shoes were a sharp contrast to the slick honey coloured wood. The beer and wine selection was tastefully displayed behind the glistening wooden bar that was dotted with small bowls of lemon and lime slices. The bartender, like all the staff moving seamlessly through the crowd with trays of finger food, was dressed in black, sporting freakishly white teeth.
I’m a bit of a cocktail party conundrum – I don’t drink alcohol, and I have a gluten allergy. Without music to dance to, food to nibble on, and alcohol to fuel my anxious social energy, I find myself exceedingly boring. Flat or sparkling water asked teeth. I prefer flat with a lemon wedge, please. The frequent food offerings were tempting and out of bounds for me, other than the four cheese and prosciutto stuffed figs I found on the buffet in the dining room. Hoping for more sweets, I was particularly disappointed that the cupcakes with buttercream piped flowers on the top were off limits. Thankfully, a knowing friend shared her pink icing Zinnia with me.
Not far into the evening I ventured outside to view the backyard oasis. As I approached the circle of black wicker chairs around an aluminum cannister with flames from the roaring wood fire jumping out, a gust of wind caught the bottom of my dress, carrying it toward the shiny side of the flaming barrel. I felt a tug on the hem as I stepped back to sit down.
Looking down, I saw two large round holes – the fabric melted and gone – near the bottom of my shiny green frock. The host happened to be stopping by to say hello, and noticing the damage, let out a huge gasp, covering his mouth as he apologized. Thankfully, I found the humour in my situation. My coffee orders cost more than my polyester dress. Flammability was always a risk. There would have been a time in my life when shame and embarrassment would have sent me home immediately. The evil twin that lives in my head would have admonished me for being careless and standing too close to the flame – a habit of mine. Walking around the party with two highly visible holes in my dress would have been unthinkable. Feigning illness, I would insist we leave, walking at an odd angle to hide the blemished dress as I made a stealth exit.
We stayed. The story was funnier when retold. It was heartwarming to meet the adult offspring and grandchildren who had come from near and far to celebrate their mother’s 60th birthday. I sought out the few people I recognized, introduced myself to a few more, and tapped into my extrovert reserve. The space felt less overwhelming with people dotting the corners and clusters finding walls, of which there were few, to lean against. I was able to appreciate a beautifully curated party.
There is freedom and grace in releasing worry about what other people think. I believe it’s one of the many gifts of aging.