Social Anxiety: A Meditation

I forgot the fucking root beer. That’s what it is. That’s what’s keeping me awake. Oh, I was prepared. It wasn’t a lack of preparation. In fact, I did offer Andy a cold root beer, but his root beer, his sugar-free root beer, is still sitting down there in the cute canvas bag, with the berries- the hostess gift I didn’t even bother to look at when they first arrived. I just put it on the counter and flitted around the downstairs engaging in one half-conversation after another keeping an eye on the amount of wine and beer, worried that I had miscalculated. Mine is generally a dry household. I am so out of practice with all of this. My presence of mind last night was practically non-existent.

Hardly any of the adults ate the hoagies. Was it because I forgot to put out the condiments? Should I have invited everyone an hour earlier? Monica is gluten-free. I did have a salad on hand. At least three of the guests have had significant pandemic-related weight fluctuations. Were there diets happening? Maybe one of the couples was in the middle of an intermittent fast. Did I forget to mention that one tray was vegetarian? I am not a foodie, and most of them are. Was it just wrong to order a tray of hoagies in the first place?

Nothing feels like more a faux pas than the root beer, however. I, of all people, should have been cued in. Upon arrival, Andy said, “I gave up adult beverages six months ago”, to which I immediately responded: “Oh, yeah? Tom doesn’t drink them either”. I said it loudly enough so Tom could hear me. I was hoping it would make him feel more at ease. It probably didn’t.

There is a novel in me about my love for Tom, a long tale about the demons he conquered, the monsters he has slain. Given all that he has sacrificed for me, I don’t want to put him through these parties and gatherings where everyone (almost everyone) except Tom gets to take the edge off with a few drinks. But I truly need social gatherings. And I know I am not the only middle-aged married woman who wants to help keep her husband socially connected. I hear all the time how my friends and acquaintances want their husbands to spend more time with friends. It’s so easy for all of us, to disengage- to keep our relationships on life support by texting in between football games or when there is a lull in whatever Netflix show we are binge-watching. And now, as one of my guests put it after most of us had some drinks, it can be seen as practically noble to back out of something at the last minute because our kids have the sniffles or whatever. We all have the perfect excuse to not show up.

My oldest daughter had a panic attack when I tried to send her into Rite Aid by herself a few months back. She’s gotten better, but she’s still struggling. She was always shy, even as a baby, but she was about eleven and a half when the pandemic hit, and at just about that time, her hormones kicked in. It’s been tough. She would wear her mask twenty-four hours a day if she could. She likes the mask/black-hoodie combo favored by so many of my high school students these days. I look out at my class and see so many unexpressive eyes peering out from these dark cocoons. But she did okay last night. There were two older girls there who knew each other well. Although it must have been uncomfortable for her, she stayed by their sides while they watched one Tik Tok video after another. Their two brothers were upstairs playing video games- one on the tv, one on the device. Together but alone. Or maybe just together. I have no idea what together does or does not mean for kids these days. And last night I had no energy to even think about them as I concerned myself with the difficulties of the middle-aged.

I often say that I am not socially anxious. I trace this claim back to when I was six and my family moved to Peru. My parents enrolled me in a Catholic school for girls full of Peruvian children. (They did not opt for the American school, and at that point, I spoke no Spanish.) On the first day, when we were dismissed for recess in the courtyard, a large crowd of little girls swarmed me. They were talking at me, touching my blond hair, and following me around every turn. I remember deciding to see the girl swarm as friendly. I focused on the girls with kind eyes. I smiled back. I let them touch my hair and my skin. Meanwhile, my little brother was over at the boys’ school running away and trying to hide. The story I’ve told myself is that I am extroverted and that I do well in intense social situations. But as I reflect on it now, after a night of not sleeping because I’ve been analyzing every hostess-related mistake I made, I realize it is probably not accurate for me to say that I am not socially anxious. The reality is I feel some social anxiety, but it is one of the few areas of my life where my response is to fight rather than flee. Connecting with others feels like a matter of survival to me.

I don’t know Andy of the sugar-free root beer well, especially compared to the other guests. I don’t know the story behind his proclamation about having given up alcohol. Maybe it isn’t as dramatic as my and Tom’s story. What I suspect is true, however, is that it wasn’t easy for him to show up last night without something to take the edge off. Just like it wasn’t easy for Tom to host or for my daughter to hang out with the big kids. I have a feeling almost everyone was a little nervous, and it makes me want to give each guest a high-five.

I feel hungover even though I drank very little. I guess I’m just spent. I imagine the evening anew and see my front door as an impossibly heavy thing. I am using all my might to shoulder open. The outside world rushes in. I try to assimilate it, making sure it is not too much to bear for those who don’t have the same strength to keep up this good fight. I fail in countless ways, but I vow to keep at it because retreat feels like a kind of death. I am spent but proud. Proud of all of us in the battle as we resist the lure of our cocoons and masks and try to find our ways back into the world.