When Year After Year I Receive an Evite to a Party Where I Know No One, Not Even the Host
The first year I didn’t reply.
I thought about replying.
The first year I thought maybe I did know them and I should go to the party.
The second year, I RSVP-ed “Not Attending.”
But I looked hard at every name on the Evite.
I thought I recognized one name.
The second year I was sure there was no one I knew.
The host sent 3 reminders to reply.
The third year there were pictures included.
Some were group selfies. I thought I saw my ear in one.
I respond, “What a great party.”
The host responds, “Let’s do it again next year.”
I respond, “Looking forward.”
The fourth year the Evite is in black and white.
It’s black tie. I love black tie parties. I have the perfect dress.
I show the list of names to my husband. We know someone, right?
I put the party on the calendar. Diet. Take spin classes.
I RSVP, “Yes” plus 1.
I search the names of who will be there.
I convince myself that the host is a good friend’s younger brother’s friend.
I imagine the stories we’ll tell. Shop for a tux.
Snow is predicted for the night of the party.
I ask about our tires, while choosing wine, a hostess gift: a scented candle, raison.
It’s hailing as we drive into the white out.
The wipers making quick strides, clearing nothing.
I check my phone, email, my socials.
Is anyone there yet?
Will anyone scream our names?
* * * * *
Abecedarian
After Insley hats were banned, I began opening the second
button on my white Peter Pan blouse as a form of rebellion.
Could have been the folk masses, the relentless brown plaid,
detention for every day late, that made me start the group against
enlightenment. Who needs forgiveness anyway? Sister Evangeline
Francis made sure to remind me that, even with
guidance from “above,” I chose to listen to a team of sinners waking in a
half darkened wood where I felt unafraid.
It wasn’t until the priest, the one who smelled of
Jovan Musk, giant gold pinky ring with a Tanzanite stone capturing a
kaleidoscope of light, corralled only the girls after
lunch to talk about our interest in a
monastic life that I banned Catholicism from my consciousness, while this priest,
noting our skepticism, droned on about how
“Only the Good Die Young” was a song making fun of our
purity yet he spent Sundays after mass visiting lonely housewives on
Quaaludes. I was not disillusioned because that would imply that I didn’t
realize it was all a scam. The free rent. The free food. The free clothes all while
soliciting our interest, just to lock us away in a nunnery. But that wasn’t it.
The real hypocrisy is confession. If God is
ubiquitous, why confess anything at all? How is confession only
valid if spoken to this middle man? I lied most days because I had nothing to confess.
While the Kathys kneeled, I was having real discussions with God. E-
xample: God, honestly, what could he be thinking? Girls like us?
You can be honest. No one is listening but me. You know the wine is sweet. I have
zero interest in bullshit and the chalice is empty.