The After Party
It starts at 2:13 am. The punishing thoughts cascade like the ceiling’s caving in, a waterfall of woe in the night.
Sleep is over, at least for now, as I suffer the onslaught that’ll last until 5 am. I adjust a down pillow under my neck, shifting positions pointlessly–my side, then my back, a sheet draped over my eyes to ‘hide,’ and finally–a move to the couch because maybe I can trick my body with a venue shift. I’m hot, then cold, and no down alternative neck support can sustain the one-two punch I feel coming–the running reel that will loop for hours. I pray, quote Scripture, breathe mindfully, but can’t deflect the deluge of “should-haves.”
“That’s it,” I resign, “I’m never, ever, throwing another party.”
I’m used to this ruthless routine. I’d hoped this time would be different. I’d done everything I could ahead of the festivities to ensure I’d have no regrets. Knowing my propensity for post-event remorse, I put extensive forethought into the evening this time. My careful intentionality paid off with multiple wins: all the important things went swimmingly. The cocktails, flowers, music–all amazing. I looked, and felt, great. All the words were spoken, and all the people honored– the hero of the night even lifted up on the dance floor like the joyful hora at a Jewish wedding.
But….we ran out of pita chips.
And I failed to introduce some out of town friends to some in-town friends.
And we forgot someone’s military title.
And no one could find the reserve forks, and who wants to eat cheesecake with bare fingers?
Aaaand we had leftover champagne….which means my helpers didn’t pass all the bubbly before the toasts….
The barrage of analyzed minutiae is
just. too. much. and in my dark room, with the fan whirring and my husband breathing, I go insane. I’m unhinged. The thoughts like black ravens circle, high at first, then swoop down voraciously to devour me, their presence stealing life. My mind’s eye goes to dark places–the forgotten, the “down in the weeds” no one else would notice or care about. But reflecting back with merciless precision, I notice, and oh how I care! I pick apart the past like Sherlock Holmes, magnifying glass up, no stone unturned in my pursuit of guilt.
I recognize the real crime: that I’m forgetting the glory of a luminous night 48 hours prior. The answered prayers. The joy of the soiree that, in the moment, deeply delighted us. The victory of being fully present–alive in the company of our beloveds. Feelings of levity & love recede as the mallet of remorse pounds me miserably. If “comparison is the thief of joy,” I’m my own robber.
I don’t tell anyone about my sleepless nights. It’s embarrassing. Edgy from lack of REM, I’m ashamed to admit to my husband and friends that I’m obsessed with what didn’t happen, when what did happen was met with exuberant praise. “It was the BEST NIGHT EVER!,” I’m told. The imperfections on which I’m fixated are so trivial that any balanced person would consider my neurosis ridiculous.
“Attention is the beginning of devotion,” exhorts the poet Mary Oliver. The attention I give to the ‘not quite right’ reveals my devotion to a too-high standard, and it feels all wrong.
But misery loves company, so I confide in Linette, an exquisite party-thrower. “Oh, I get it,” she throws me a lifeline. “I still wake up with regrets a year after the party I threw for my friend.” I tell another, and Caroline admits, “Oh, yeah. So normal. You gotta let that go. After Clara’s wedding, I woke up for days thinking I wasn’t polite to my aunt, and probably mean to my friends in the frenzy of decorating.”
Weirdly, this comforts me. “Oh, good,” I think. “My friends are tormented, too.”
Of course, I don’t actually wish this suffering on anyone. It’s excruciating, this bedtime dread of large black birds pecking at my scalp. But the further I am from the party, the better I sleep, empathy and chronological distance soothing the sting. I begin to relax, let down, let things go.
Sometimes still, in fitful slumber, I boomerang to imperfections of an otherwise perfect evening, and again feel like a crazy person. Resting in bed, in deep breaths of self-care, I’m calmed knowing there’s a comradery of other crazies around me. Friends who get me–my own, cozy anxiety society. It’s pretty twisted that their regret assuages my insomnia, but it does. I love my friends.
I think I’ll invite them over for a party.
Well written. But, we have to talk about this.