After hearing about this "party of the year" for a few holiday seasons, I finally made it home in time to attend the fête that my sister had always bragged about and I was excited: gorgeous house in the hills of New Hampshire, hockey players, investment bankers, doctors, lawyers--some of them even single--and lots and lots of free alcohol. The perfect recipe for a great party. Despite the jet-setting I had previously embarked on before landing in Vermont for the holidays, my sister was a professional party attendee and I knew this party had to be great if she said so.
I was 99% sure this party would be fabulous. The remaining 1% was hesitation: I hadn't actually attend a swanky party in the hills of New Hampshire before (or to mention it, anywhere in New England), but it certainly seemed like it would be full of city folk who did the whole ski scene in the beautiful hills of New England. I dressed to impress.
My little black dress, sky-high heels, and fabulous crown lent to me by my sister who had recently been crowned Mrs. Vermont, seemed like the perfect ensemble for the holiday affair. It was cold that night and about two feet of fresh snow made the drive up the mountain-esque road breath-taking. Along with my sister, her husband and another male friend of theirs joined as as we drove up together joking and laughing. Their friend, Mike was a fun guy but not someone I was attracted to or someone I was all that interested in. His personal situation was messy-- a wife he was un-interested in but stayed together with for their young daughter. Not something I wanted to really get involved in.
Once I noticed the dripping boots and ski jackets pilled in the entry way, I should have known from the moment we arrived that the party would be less like the fabulous and crazy crowd I had imagined. Walking into to the large kitchen, which opened into the lovely living room groups of people were scattered around quietly speaking. Immediately I realized I was slightly over-dressed and could tell the tiara perched on the top of my head wouldn't be nearly as appreciated as I had hoped.
In fact, I felt for an instant as if I had walked into a party in high school at which I probably didn't really belong. I had never been apart of the in crowd then and the few times I did show up I couldn't help but feel mostly awkward and out of place because I wasn't all that sure how to act. Most of the woman in the room were wearing conservative outfits-- lumpy sweaters and and awful shoes. Just as I was about to ask my sister what she saw in this crowd, she handed me a large glass of wine and simply instructed me to "drink". Perhaps she felt the same strange tension.
After a glass of wine, however, I began to relax and even tried to engage in a conversation with Mike and another woman. I didn't want to appear snobby but as a commented on the story he was telling, she looked at me as if I just spoke French. It wasn't hard to tell how the crowd divided: married couples and slightly desperate woman looking for the perfect Christmas story to one day tell their future children. I was clearly an obstacle to those goals. I shrugged it off happily knowing the details of Mike's life--he was all hers.
The rest of the party flashed by in a drunken daze. I had never thought of myself as the girl who crashes a party. Yes, I felt attractive and flirty that night but I never imagined that I would be considered a threat especially amongst a crowd I didn't know nor would ever see again. Looking back, I felt insecure because I wasn't accustom to the ways of the mid-thirties woman. I was a little intimated by them at first but in all honesty slightly bored of even the men after a while. So, I drank to make up for the lack of substance the party had to offer.
That was the lethal combination of the night: frustration and desire. I wanted to find someone great to have a nice time with and I also needed it to be a great party. I thought that alcohol would make it better and in some ways it did. Until I woke up the next morning to find myself naked in bed.
The rest of the night came flooding back like a bad dream. Dirty martinis, flirtatious moments with Mike, the hotel room, the stranger utterances I was calling out as we apparently had sex and then the next morning--awake, alone and mortified. After dragging myself home and showering off the strange and slightly disastrous night I began to think that even if I hadn't qualified myself as desperate like the other woman from the party ultimately I had only proved my own desperation. No, I wasn't desperate for the same story book ending I had assumed they were after but my need to feel desired and liked-- the type of girl I looked down at when I was at those parties in high school and the type of girl I swore I would never be--just to fit in.
