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Lisa:It’ll be good for you. Don’t stress.
Me:Easy for you to say. You’re a social butterfly. I’m more like a mole. I need small, dark spaces.
Lisa:…
Me:I know I’ll have fun once I’m out. It’s just hard to force myself.
Lisa:It’s not like you don’t know everyone who will be there.
Me:I know. It’s really not about the people. I just… want to go home to my safe little nook.
The waist of my jeans pinch tightly, and my bra suddenly digs into my back. My body is rebelling as my pajama pants call to me. I want nothing more than to go home and throw this bra across the room.
Why are clothes so uncomfortable?
Even though I love my team, I can’t shake the anxiety that always piles on before a social event. I drag my feet as long as I can, puttering around my office. Hoping some work-related fire pops up, so I’d have an excuse to stay behind. I keep checking my email.
Refresh. Refresh.
Minutes later, Lisa sticks her pretty face in the doorway with a raised eyebrow in mock sternness. Her midnight locks sway as she tsks at me with a knowing smirk, motioning for me to hurry.
As our group of eight meanders down the sidewalk, Lisa falls back to fall in step with me. She bumps me with her shoulder as if she were saying,Thanks for coming out even though you hate it.
I smile and bump her back.I hate that you’re making me socialize, but I love you anyway.
Eight years ago we met at a Women in Tech Conference, and we’ve been best friends ever since. She was the first person I met outside of work when I moved here. When a job opened up at my company last year, I knew she’d be perfect for it. It’s nice eating lunch together every day.
We walk in silence as the guys joke and laugh in front of us, leading us down Crescent Avenue to South City Kitchen. Small trees covered in bright orange leaves line the busy street, now filled with rush hour traffic. Atlanta’s two weeks of fall are almost over, but the trees have at least another week of pretty colors before they all go bare.
The chill in the air is refreshing, but the stench of exhaust prevents me from enjoying it too much. A foggy haze settles over my mind as I mindlessly follow the group. I listen to the muffled sounds of cars and conversation around me. Sometimes I feel like I’m among the living, but only as a passive observer.
Thanks, depression.
At the restaurant, our group takes up more than half the barstools as they settle into a well-worn routine. Cocktail and appetizer orders fly as I take my seat at the end of the bar beside Lisa. When the bartender looks at me, I order a water and the seasonal soup.
Lisa leans close with furrowed eyebrows. Her big brown eyes are gentle and round like a doe. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just tired.”
Lie.
“Not drinking tonight? It usually helps.”
I just don’t enjoy drinking much anymore. In my twenties and even early thirties, it was fun and always increased my enjoyment of social things. I don’t know if it’s just getting older or lack of frequency, but I’ve come to hate it. It gives me a headache and indigestion for two days. So why do I keep doing it?
“One glass of wine, and I’ll be passed out on this bar.”
Lisa chuckles with a nod, knowing all too well how easily wine knocks me out. Last time I had some, we were playing a couch co-op game in my apartment. I was asleep before 8:00 pm.
“Too true, and I’m not strong enough to carry you two blocks back to your place.”
With orders placed, several of the guys congregate and chat behind our chairs. Stephen rants excitedly about an article he read on Hacker News about some new open-source library. Then I hear Ross say, “Did you get Tim’s Save The Date?”
My ears perk up, my body going stiff.
A group of muted murmurs and shuffling feet roll through the group, the vibe suddenly dying down. Lisa’s eyes dart from Ross to me before she asks, “As in Tim, that used to work in accounting?”
Ross must realize his mistake because his eyes dart to mine, then to the table, as if ashamed when he nods.
