As many of you know, I recently finished the novel Mrs. Dalloway – the story follows the middle-aged title character through the course of one day a she plans a party. Mrs. Dalloway throws parties; she entertains. It is her art, her passion, and her purpose as it were. If the party is not a resounding success, her world and mortality will come crushing in around her.
Virginia Woolf originally intended for her heroine to commit suicide at the end of the novel. Those who are familiar with the book know that the ending is decidedly not quite so morbid. Dalloway believes that her parties directly connect to the deeper fiber of her being. Being a successful hostess is what makes her tick.
It may seem trivial to think that the assembling of acquaintances in one beautifully decorated and well-orchestrated evening should be so important to an individual’s sanity and mortality. But entertaining others is her means of creatively expressing her feelings and celebrating the joy of life. If her party is a failure, her existence then loses its sense of meaning and purpose.
I understand Mrs. Dalloway.
This weekend I too decided to go out, buy the flowers myself and throw together a party of my own. It was not a success. Of the 65 people invited, three managed to attend.
An hour-and-a-half into the party, with no guests to distract myself, I certainly struggled to answer many of the questions I imagined likely circled in Mrs. Dalloway’s head.
It is almost inconceivable to imagine that I have left no impression upon the world around me – I suppose such a statement could be considered narcissistic, but don’t we all want to be liked and have friends?
Three darling friends of mine came, and I do hold those three quite dear to my heart (plus, of course, my fabulous co-host, that made five of us). We five had interesting conversations, and I value their friendships deeeeeeply but…
1. I was embarrassed by the obvious and apparent failure of the night.
2. I find still hurt to think that I mean nothing to many of the others invited.
Okay, I know there were a few sincere friends, who in advance let know that they couldn’t make it. But the night got me wondering. Do we ever manage to move beyond the person we were in high school? I was a bit of loner, a dork really back then, and it seems as if I haven’t moved beyond that. We all have our excuses and busy lives, but how can one not help but hurt to discover that he is just a small blip on the radar. It seems as if my year in New York has not affected the lives of others as much as I would have hoped. That certainly is one strike against staying in the Big Apple.
I hate fake people – don’t apologize if you don’t mean it or tell me you’re sorry you missed out when you never intended to come. I am trying to reevaluate and accept that many I considered to be friends were merely bumps on the road and re-consider who it is I really am. I guess bottom line, I was sad and humiliated Saturday. I’m certainly revising my plans for my birthday – ha ha!
To you four who were there Saturday - thanks for coming! You're all fab - until next time, om, chanti, chanti, chanti, namaste
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