OK so my husband and I are in our forties. Which means by all definition, we are adults.
And yet we’ve only attended approximately one cocktail party in our lives. I know, right?
It was New Year’s Eve 1999 – an epic Millennial celebration. We were in our late twenties and kid-less so we were all wild and free. It wasn’t a keg party. It was a real, live adults-only party with hors d-oeuvres and wine and everything.
But seriously, how sad is that? Just one cocktail party. What the hell is that all about? Don’t people host cocktail parties anymore? I mean, we’ve never hosted one, but still.
I want to get a cute little black dress, put on my high heels and sheer hose, spritz some fancy Victoria’s Secret perfume on my neck and wrist, mingle and make small talk, all while the sweet sounds of jazz great Wynton Marsalis fill the air.
Maybe my expectations are a tad bit high.
Am I living in a 1970s sitcom here with hopes of meeting George and Louise Jefferson at a soiree in their deluxe apartment in the sky? Or maybe harmlessly flirt with Gopher from the Love Boat on the Lido deck as Isaac hands me my martini?
Anyway, we recently moved to a new neighborhood and we’re still getting to know many of our neighbors.
In our mailbox a few days ago was a hand-delivered invitation to a drinks / appetizers gathering or as my 1970s brain read it: A COCKTAIL PARTY.
You guys, I am all over this.
Are my hopes just a wee bit high? Perhaps.
Will I wear a little black dress and smell like a Victoria’s Secret model? Hard to say.
It may be overkill. But you know what?
I feel like we’re real adults now. Isn’t that stupid? My husband was sort of blasé about it when he saw the invitation. I asked him if he wanted to go and he was all “yeah, whatever.”
He has no idea that we are SO going to this.