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Fear Factor

Some people are afraid of spiders. Some can’t deal with heights. When my Uncle Jake saw a snake in our yard once when I was a kid, he had to have a lie down for an hour. I’m not a fan of spiders, heights, or snakes. However, there’s one thing that terrifies me more than any of those things. More than clowns. More than Stephen King novels. Even more than things that go bumpety-bump in the deep dark of the night where you wonder if you really locked your door and is that sound just the wind or is it Freddy Krueger with his razor fingers coming to get you?

I’m terrified of parties where I don’t know anyone.

I’m invited to a party by a friend and it’s a gorgeous, breezy, late-summer night. I can’t wait to go. I grab a bottle of wine and an appetizer on my way there because you can’t go to a party empty handed. I’m wearing what I think is something fun yet comfortable. Makeup applied, frizz in hair somewhat tamed.

I get to the house and the door is open, so I walk right in. Then comes the moment of ultimate horror: I realize that I recognize no one.

No one.

Not a blessed soul.

My brain goes into overdrive. Do I have the right house? Who are these people? Maybe I’m dreaming. Do you feel your sweat busting out and laying claim under your arms in your dreams or do you just feel weird and awkward? I feel my sweat. Okay, I’m not dreaming. What do I do? Where do I go?

The hostess comes up to me. Okay, I know her. It is the right house. She gives air kisses, points me toward the drink-and-food table, and disappears.

Drink?

Food?

Okay.

I put my stuff down. I grab a bit of booze, fill a small plate with apps, and look around. The hostess has gone M.I.A. and the rest of the partygoers are in little groups having what I’m assuming are infinitely interesting conversations. Anybody I recognize yet? Nope. I’m not good about approaching strangers and buffaloing my way into their conversations, so I take a huge scoop of guacamole and stuff it into my mouth. Then my thoughts turn simple like a caveman’s. Mmmmmm. Guacamole good. Much good. More. Want more. Have more.

At parties where I know at least one person, I’m fine. In fact, I enjoy those very much. In this social no-man’s land of the unknown guests, however, I’m not enjoying myself. The guac is good, but guac only goes so far. I want to crawl under the food-and-drink table and hide until I see a familiar face.

Instead I take a sip of booze. Caveman thoughts return. Mmmmm. Booze. Good. Cold. Good cold.

Someone new comes into the room. Ah yes, another person I’ve never met. Will she be heading to the food-and-drink table? Can we talk about how good the guac is? Nope. She immediately goes to one of the groups and they socially scoop her up. I unleash a small sigh and weigh my options.

More guac?

More booze?

Unnecessary trip to the bathroom just to hang for a minute until someone I know arrives?

I’m thinking I’ll go with the bathroom idea, but I haven’t the foggiest where the bathroom is located. Dang.

Then I see him. He materializes like an angel birthed from heaven. It’s Guy I Know. I put down my 15th guacamole-laden chip and wave like I’m waving down a rescue helicopter from an uncharted island. Over here! I’m over here! Guy I Know approaches and introduces me to more party guests. Soon I’m in conversation with people who were strangers and terribly frightening only moments ago. At the next party at this house I will be able to approach them and say hello and join their conversation. It’s that easy. Before that moment of introduction, however, the experience is nothing less than completely excruciating.

So if you see me at the next party I go to where I don’t know anyone, kindly come over and rescue my butt. You’ll find me at the food table.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com.