Our Social Calendar is Killing Me   by SJ Butler 

How to survive the trials and tribulations of meeting friends  

 

Every time I have to attend a social gathering another part of me dies. I know it’s important for good mental health and a fine example to your children of how being a fully functioning social being is an integral part of becoming a good, well-balanced member of society, but is it really necessary to put yourself through so much pain and suffering on a regular basis? A bit extreme, I know, but I am still trying to get my head around how to actually survive and might I say behave in such settings. For now, I’m just going to try and make sense of this whole crazy world. 

The week has hardly started, and I’m reminded that we are attending our biannual meet-up with the Murrows. We’ve already had them to ours where I’d managed to hide-out and run down the clock in the kitchen cooking my showpiece, Jamie Oliver, vegetarian curry. ‘We’ll be home by twelve,’ says Sarah as if this is going to compensate for what’s ahead.  

‘And everything will be the same as before – same food, same conversations, same old shit,’ I moan. I always do this (it’s almost expected).  

‘You’ve got it, Stanley,’ she jokes because she likes teasing me that I’m like the slob Stanley Kowalski in Tennessee William’s play A Streetcar Named Desire. ‘You might even enjoy yourself,’ she laughs. ‘It’s good for you to meet people,’ Sarah adds cryptically as I sigh and lower my head in defeat and say grudgingly that I’ll put it in my diary (not that I need one, but it does sound more mature). 

The tasteful Georgian house in the centre of town is the same, the warm welcome almost identical to the last meet-up. The special bowls of snacks littering the dining room table makes my stomach rumble as I resist the urge to get stuck in before sitting down and attempting a few more pleasantries. 

‘You’ve got a new car,’ I say, stating the obvious and then sensing that my opening line of the evening may have lacked conviction (I so desperately want to come across as a good guy and ultimately a competent social animal). ‘I’ve seen quite a few of them,’ I add dumbly (perhaps trying a bit too hard) and instantly realising that I’ve said the wrong thing.  

“Well, I’ve only seen one and that was in the showroom,” is the sharp reply which says so much. Now I need help!  

‘Love the colour and vintage interior?’  Glad of the support from Sarah, I timidly look her way as she subliminally gives the nod for us to sit down. 

Wobble over, our host Jen is already in entertaining mode filling our glasses to overflowing with Sauvignon Blanc and Merlot for me as she gives a very long detailed account of the purchase of her boujee Mini convertible with the chrome stripe down the side and how she’d got many different quotes and that the Range Rover wasn’t practical for city driving. 

Unable to mask my first yawn of the evening, I manage another swig of wine – I’ve almost polished it off. 

‘We have to get ours upgraded.’ 

The comment is aimed at me and also a signal that my wife has seen my yawn and glugging as I now sit upright, reaching for my first sausage roll which I remember from last time is homemade and mega tasty.  

‘Just the main car,’ I say with my mouth full as Jen’s false expression now follows the sprayed crumbs to my shirt. Still smiling and I know thinking that my choice of vehicle - a practical ten-year-old Ford Focus is a dull and a cheap option, she pushes a bowl of crisps my way. I think I have a reputation for being the piggy at the table and she enjoys in a macabre way in stuffing me to the gills. Sarah says it’s because she likes me and wants to mother me. I don’t think so. I definitely note a sinister glint in her eye each time she has to refill an empty bowl for me as I polish off the last few morsels. 

Now Jen and Sarah are talking about things they only know about (they are the friend connection here). Which is great because I can turn off, pig-out and drink like Stanley and nobody expects that much of me (all the while they’ve got plenty to catch up on). “But hold on,” I hear you say, “where’s the guy; the other half?” Geoff, who works in finance is in the other room with the door open watching Formula One on his seventy-five-inch flat screen, sprawled on the beige recliner; a bowl of nuts perched on his belly. He’s already lifted his hand in acknowledgement and shouted: ‘I won’t be a minute,’ his wife making the odd excuse for him saying how he never misses the racing. I don’t think I’ve ever been in their house when Geoff was actually part of the welcoming committee - it’s the same matrix as before. 

I get on OK with the other half (horrible expression). He’s pretty one dimensional and talks mainly (you got it) about sport, which is a safe topic but pretty tiresome after a while, especially when he seems to think I have the same level of interest as he does. Why doesn’t he catch-on that I’m just being polite? But here’s the problem: I don’t talk to him about what I’m interested in i.e. music, writing, movies etc, because he shows no interest and always steers the conversation back to bloody racing cars. Sometimes I persevere, particularly when it’s our turn to entertain, but it’s a battle I’m never going to win, because Geoff thinks he’s interesting and a fun guy. In fact, he’s the most popular guy I know, but that’s not to say he has the right to dominate and dictate what we talk about. Sarah says he’s funny (I’m sure she’s got him mixed-up with our other friend Miguel), I say he’s something else - which I can’t really print. 

This is the danger time for me. When they’re both together the dynamic changes, each morphing as one and becoming a show couple. Geoff ditches the sporty stuff which is only for my ears and joins the collaboration of the double act. It’s probably when I do most of my eating and drinking as each topic is expertly shot down by their side as they have always done something more relevant and better than us.  Worst of all, is that they’ve told the same story before. Now I might be unique in this area, but I know when I’ve previously told a story. Can’t they read our glazed expressions as they rampage on, destroying the beauty of the two-way art of conversation? Sarah is convinced that they don’t know they are doing it and it’s because they socialise on such a large scale, that when they get round to little old us they have no recollection of telling us their rambling yarns. I’ve been warned off saying: “I remember you mentioning that before.” Apparently, it’s rude – but unlike them at least I’d only be saying it once. 

When I add it all up, our friends seem to be anything but easy-go-lucky types. There’s not a warm casualness about any of them. Is it because like us they are on edge all the time and probably just want to get it all over with? Miguel and Patricia are perhaps the closest to couple nirvana you get, but they’re hippies and we feel they use us to look after their animals (four cats, two dogs) all the time as they head off on various road adventures. Miguel’s a travel blogger who everyone wants to throw money at, which annoys me because I hardly make anything out of my writing. We usually meet at a local restaurant where we always seem to foot the bill. On the plus side they are quite entertaining, though Sarah does have reservations about Miguel who tends to linger (her words) on the hug and kind of rubs her back in soothing cycles before she has to pull away. He also hugs me (minus the massage) – it’s more a covid-esque pat on the back. 

Apart from the Murrows, I probably dread Craig and Martina Delaney-Clarke’s dinner parties most. In fact, really just Craig. Out and out know-it-all Craig: green party activist, techie, gadget obsessed, trivia quiz geek who loves the sound of his own voice but avoids eye contact every time he opens his mouth to spew out facts which he thinks we should know about. He’s probably on the spectrum and that’s OK so am I probably – but he’s a tiresome bore (there I’ve said it). I call him fact man which I think is pretty cool and gives me something to hold onto when he’s crapping on. A visit to their house is like going to a talking library. As with Geoff – it’s a one-way conversation, to which his partner eagerly encourages him. “Tell them about the new greenway, Craig,” and “tell them about how you’re guest speaker at congress this year, Craig.” Always his name annoyingly at the end. It’s fine for her – she’s constantly in the kitchen preparing food which doesn’t seem to materialise. I can’t even hide behind the snacks with this one and being Craig doesn’t drink; my glass is always half empty. At least Jen wines and dines me. ‘Tell us what an A-hole you are Craig,’ I say as we’re safely on our way home. 

You’ve probably worked out that all the women in these couplings are my wife’s friends and not mine. Like a lot of men, I just tend to meet my bestie (notice the sad singular) in a bar or café. We only refer to our partners and kids once or twice in the course of conversation, we certainly never feel the compulsion to meet them and heaven forbid in a cosy foursome. It’s probably (pardon the generalisation) because women are more socially apt than us dullards (I mean men). Why they want us to team-up with their friend’s other-half is at times baffling and something which I find hard to comprehend. Even when my partner is meeting a single girlfriend on her own in town, I still sometimes get drafted in for the half-meet, which is usually the last half an hour  (which of course I prefer to the Murrow or Delaney-Clarke talk-at-me-athons. Maybe she’s just proud of me and wants to show me off, though I’m pretty sure this isn’t the case – you wouldn’t willingly include Stanley Kowalski unless you had to. 

For a functioning reluctant introvert like me who deep down wants to be liked by everyone, surviving is all that matters in the world of dinner parties. When I was younger, I found them quite challenging due to a stutter which would re-surface and Sarah would often have to tutor me before the guests arrived or we arrived. “Ask lots of questions and speak slowly,” were her wise words of encouragement. Naturally, I had my own coping strategies as well – the three comments rule being a pre-requisite to all meets. In groups of more than four this is a must, just to let them know you can actually speak and you’re not playing your cymbals in the attic as you drift into head-nodding and umming in agreement to whatever’s being said (it’s usually enough) – though it’s important to pay some attention as I have slipped up on a number of occasions when asked a direct question. If I was stuck, Sarah would dutifully come to my rescue and prod me in another direction. 

With a lot of practice and game time under my belt I could soon function on my own. The prep-talks continued but instead of what to say to our friends it became more what not to say which I guess is a progress of sorts. You see, I had kind of worked it out. Having studied Miguel, Geoff, and Craig from a silent distance, I noticed (though at different levels) they all had one thing in common – they either were as in Miguel’s case funny or as with Craig and Geoff trying to be. And that was it! I’d cracked it! All I had to do was put together a comedy routine – a few humorous observations to run-down the clock and I’d survive – plus I’d be loved. “Steady there, compadre,” Sarah had said when it became evident that there’d been a sudden change in my social persona and I’d been competing for the spotlight with Craig – us both believing we were guest comedians on Saturday Night Live, joking and making funny surreal comments - though I was naturally better than Fact man. The art of being funny: even Jen had jumped in with a few putdowns to which Geoff appeared a little unprepared. Sarah who is just naturally comical and unlike me didn’t have to put together a routine said that we were all just competing peacocks with huge male egos which I think is spot-on. Of course, there is a downside to humour – you can unknowingly upset someone which for me saw the emergence of a dos and don’ts list. Sarah’s friend Susan (who was on the half-meet calendar) I’d upset unintentionally on a few occasions attempting to be funny when combating her relentless monologues with senseless observations. “She takes her job as a psychiatrist very seriously, so cut the One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest stuff – it’s the 2000’s not 1970.” I stuck to nodding and umming after that. 

On a positive, social get-togethers do keep you on your toes. Sometimes you have to tear up the script, especially if new people are in the mix who might be younger as you have to drop the casual cultural references and sometimes explain who Keith Richards is when attempting a witty drink and drugs comparison or why audiences in the nineties thought that Everyone Loves Raymond was radically zany at the time. And of course, you always must be alert to what your partner might say after a few drinks - suggesting perhaps (heaven forbid) that we all go on holiday together. Sarah only did this once, proposing a day trip to attend an exhibition I’d really been looking forward to. Luckily, she was more shocked than me, when I reminded her on the way home. She instantly cancelled the next day saying she’d made a mistake and had work obligations. 

The pre-outing chat with your partner is of utter importance, particularly if you intend to tell a few fibs to your mutual friends. This usually means me. I just hate nosey people, particularly Jen who will try to get the background on everything you do. Having recently left my teaching job to concentrate full-time on my writing, a move which I petulantly believe is no-one’s business and still being a little sensitive that I’ve given up a well-paid position, I fervently (much to Sarah’s dismay) insist with sticking to the I’m still a teacher lie, inventing new school stories every time I’m probed on “how’s work going?” as I astound myself at how quickly I can concoct long convoluted lies. The “but I thought you didn’t like teaching,” accusation from Jen (which is totally true) has thrown me off course a few times as the stutter makes a comeback, as I almost give myself away by replying: ‘W-well yes; b-but until I’m school l-leaving age, I still have to go’ – another attempt at a bad joke which nobody gets. “Maybe start speaking slowly again?” Sarah whispers as I redden and make a grab for the last sausage on a stick. 

Very few good people get out of socialising alive. It’s a precarious pastime with many complex unwritten codes of behaviour. Showing the best side of yourself won’t always save you nor will hiding behind drink (can be tricky) or abstaining and having to witness the whole thing sober. Worst of all is the proven fact (in my experience) that over-exposure to people who are supposedly your friends won’t make you like them anymore, in fact it may result in you disliking them completely. Perhaps if I saw the Murrows only once a year for two hours max at a neutral venue I might learn to tolerate them more and possibly enjoy their company.  

The date with our friends is still droning on. My mind wandering, I’m planning my work schedule for the next day and also thinking about maybe buying a second hand piano and learning to play Lennon & McCartney’s Let it Be. Geoff and Jen are telling us for probably the sixth time (I’ve been keeping count of this one) about when they mistakenly got a train to Bern instead of Berlin and how they thought the spelling in German was different and didn’t realise they were in Switzerland until they arrived and tried to find their hotel. Sarah has already kicked my foot a couple of times when I let out a silent sigh and a defiant yawn as I vacantly stare at the hairline crack in the ceiling above their talking heads, praying that they would just die (I don’t mean this literally, but you know what I mean). 

‘If you say them quickly they both sound the same,’ I suddenly blurt as I go on to explain further. ‘Bern…. Berlin…,’ I add blending the two together in an exaggerated German accent. ‘That’s the punchline,’ I say proud of myself that I had contributed to their tired, bland story – plus it had been bothering me in between wondering if I should ditch the piano idea and go with a saxophone, that they’d never made the connection that if you said them both quickly they’d sound pretty much the same - they were just concentrating on the spelling. Duh! 

I’d knocked them both temporarily, beautifully, off course as they managed false smiles and Jen condescendingly refilled my nut bowl. At least I got a chuckle from Sarah who was looking at me (in my eyes) with devotion. 

The next evening we’re on the couch with a bottle of wine, watching our third Gilmore Girls episode of the night. Apart from a brief rant from me on the way home we haven’t mentioned our date with the Murrows. In fact, we’ve hardly said a word to each other, apart from both agreeing that we’d love to live in fictitious Stars Hollow. We’d survived, perhaps using our friends as an example of how good our own relationship is.  

‘Time for bed Stanley,’ says Sarah getting up, ‘Oh, and don’t forget it’s Craig and Martina next weekend – our place.’ 

Smiling, I think of all the things I’d really like to say to our friends as I acknowledge my fate and say that I’ll put it in the diary.