How to Be the Least Cool Person at a Cool Party
An essay for sober people who lost their confidence.
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The Alcoholic
Originally published May 23, 2023
A couple of weeks ago, I got invited to a fancy-sounding party at The Paramour Estate, which I usually would not attend because I like my boring and uncomplicated social life. But it was being thrown by my friend Phil* so I wanted to be there for him because he’s the best, but I was sure I’d bail at the last minute. The invitation said there would be “sunset cocktails and bites” from “6:30 p.m to …”
The dot-dot-dot made me nervous. I considered myself retired from the dot-dot-dot party scene due to my sobriety, and I’m still so uncomfortable not drinking around people I don’t know.
It’s not like drinking helped me that much, either. Anytime I’d have to interact in a large group—even five or six people—I’d get it in my head that I needed to unlock the best version of myself to engage in small talk with strangers, or else everyone would leave there noting how unimpressive I was. “Nobody is thinking about you, I promise,” is what every therapist trying to help with my various mood disorders has repeatedly told me. I still don’t believe them. Do you?
I can easily rattle off dozens of times when I failed in these tight social situations—from a 5th-grade birthday party at a bowling alley to the first sober wedding I attended at age 42. At each of those events, I can distinctly recall a moment when I watched the light go out of someone’s eyes in mid-conversation with me. But I’d be hard-pressed to remember the days I felt supremely confident. What does that look like? Being funny doesn’t count because we all know that’s just a cover true maniacs use.
It would be a little warmer out that night, too, so I wore a blazer but had a crappy white T-shirt underneath because I was convinced I would flop-sweat over everything. I can’t tell you how often I’ve gone to any type of soiree and been soaked before I’d even opened my mouth to say hello to someone. Five minutes in, I’d be at the bar chugging water, stuffing twelve cocktail napkins in my pockets, and running to the bathroom to splash water all over my face so that it looked like I was vigorously washing myself as opposed to looking like I’d just ran five miles wearing garbage bags. At least back then, I smoked, and I could stay outside for two or three cigarettes while I air-dried.
But I put all that paranoia aside and forced myself to go. I wanted to try to have fun and talk to people I haven’t met because that’s what upright-walking humans do; I need to blissfully connect as much as possible in my one little life.
*****
Luckily, my friend Albin is also a friend of Phil, so he was game to tag along with me. I tried to time my arrival properly, getting there early enough to make an appearance, say hi to Phil, hang with Albin for an hour, and then get out of there before sunset. The key was not to be the first guest to arrive. I didn’t—I was third. And the two people there before me appeared to have maybe worked at the estate.
Trying not to panic, I spent about 20 minutes walking around the stunningly majestic property, then went inside and shuffled between all the haunted-looking rooms, some full of taxidermied jungle animals and dusty paintings with half-nude angels. After several slow-paced laps, I’d head back outside and look at the mountains and the skyline again. Sometimes, I pretended to smoke by deeply inhaling my fingertips.
Albin finally arrived about an hour after I did, and he showed up in a cashmere sweatsuit—AND he took the bus over. This was a level of confidence I wasn’t aware was humanly possible. “You wanna grab a drink?” he said. So we did. He got the house’s special vodka concoction, and I went with a club soda with lime, like a true alcoholic.
One hour ticked by, and then another. I handled myself admirably, attaching myself to Albin the whole time, marveling at how he kept drawing in people who wanted to hang with him and his cashmere sweatsuit. His small talk was effortless. He was charming and completely controlled the four-foot circular space between him and anyone who stepped inside it. It was like watching a MasterClass called “How to Mingle with Hollywood Types.”
I mostly nodded, jumping in when I could but trying my best to move along and remain unmemorable. I tried to be as small as possible to avoid the “What do you do?” conversation because I’m always terrible at that. Sometimes, I say I’m a writer, but I get shifty when the inevitable “What kind of things do you write?” follow-up happens because, out here, everyone assumes that you write for TV.
Recently, I’ve started telling people I work in the “mental health space” to because somehow I feel like that will be less awkward for me. But tonight, I wanted to go for it: “I’m a writer.” Dammit.
Some guests began to leave a little before 9 p.m., but the ones who stayed were ready to start the more serious party: Out came the expensive weed and stronger drinks, louder talking, and unrestrained laughter.
Two lingerers were a successful actress and her husband, who were holding court similarly to Albin, and we merged with them as the night went on. She was a delight, but some of her cohorts became more obnoxious and slurrier. I began to fidget, glancing down at my phone and acting like I was waiting for an important message, my go-to move when flustered. I was about to ditch Albin and Irish goodbye the joint, but Phil swooped into our group before I could scamper away. He grandly re-introduced me to our small group of semi-famous people.
“A.J. interviewed me for his beautiful newsletter, which was mentioned in the New York Times!”
The actress seemed impressed and pivoted over to me.
“Oh wow! What’s the name of it? I’ll go read it later!”
I perked up and readied myself to engage.
“It’s called The Small Bow.”
“The Small Boat?”
A loud-laughing drunk woman standing next to me wanted more details.
“The Small Boat! You write about boats?”
“No, no, not boats—Bow. Small Bow,” I said.
“Oh, like a bow you use for wrapping presents,” said the actress, trying to be helpful.
“No, like a bow!” I made a clumsy bow-and-arrow motion, which caused more confusion.
But the banter suddenly became fun, and I felt that dizzying hum of new drunk friends.
I didn’t wish for a drink at that moment, but I did fantasize about where my new best Hollywood friends and I would head off after this to keep this night going if I was getting after it like I used to. Has the Drawing Room reopened yet? These people would love who I used to be.
But then I played the tape all the way through and remembered that it would inevitably become messy and weird: None of us would like each other by midnight. There is nothing but heartache and trouble for me anywhere but home.
I recovered nicely from the Bow/Boat thing, and no one seemed to pay much more attention to me after that. Nobody was thinking about me at all, just like every therapist said. Plus, I didn’t sweat, not one drop.
When I got home, Julieanne and the dog were up, but the kids were asleep. She asked me how the night was. “I had so much fun.”
I was in bed by 10:30, and I woke up with no regrets.
* Phil is Phil Pavel, from this beloved TSB interview:
NEW PODCAST EPISODE! “How to Tame Your Monster” with Claire Dederer
“This outsized notion of one's own monstrousness can be a form of narcissism and can be part of recovery that has to be worked through. That is certainly not what we would call like, you know, emotional sobriety. It isn't sort of sitting around beating yourself up. And, this kind of indulgence in the idea that I'm the biggest monster is how that pairs with shame.”
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*****
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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:
Matchbook
by George Bilgere
*********
When the last smoker
has smoked
the last cigarette
I’m going to miss
that deft,
back-handed,
loose-wristed wave,
the two or three
quick snaps
whereby
they put out their match.
How it flared and died
into a smoky elegy.
Because
the young woman
over there,
lighting up,
just did that
magician’s trick
to conjure my father
from fifty years away.
He takes a deep,
glorious drag, then
looks back down
at his newspaper
and vanishes
into whatever it is
the dead
are reading about these days.
