My family loves to razz me because outside of work, I have no life. I have no friends, hate to socialize and, if left to my own devices, would probably become an agoraphobe hermit. Those are exaggerations, of course, but they’re not far from the mark.
Besides being an introvert with a sprinkling of social anxiety, I’m also a morning person who values sleep above all else. To that end, I never drink alcohol after 4 p.m. and schedule evening activities so that I’m home by 9. If you throw a 90-minute Bloody Mary brunch with people I already know, well, I’m your girl. Otherwise, fughetaboutit.
I bring this up because last week, not only did I partake of a half-glass of cabernet while making dinner, I physically left the dark and safe comforts of my house not once, but twice, to engage with the world. My teenagers are terrified: “What’s wrong with Mom? Is she having a midlife crisis? Holy Mary, is this menopause?”
Please. I just really wanted some wine with my chicken and, by a fluke of scheduling, was invited to a couple of get-togethers with close colleagues on back-to-back Saturdays. I know. How radical of me. But non-night owl introverts can have fun with other humans; we simply need fair warning, an early end time and an emotionally safe environment. My husband and kids seriously need to chill.
Not that I’ll ever admit to enjoying socializing or to having friends. I like being known for my senior citizen/ vampire tendencies. It’s my shtick. But I wouldn’t mind a break from the teasing. They all need to get a life. Jeeze.