I've never been a particularly social creature. Let's face it: if I were good with people, I probably would be living fat on commissions earned selling people things they can ill afford and need less. Instead, my strong suit is my ability to communicate with machines, which take offense over my relative lack of social grace only when that involves the phrase, "Hand me the big hammer, please."
My sweet wife, on the other hand, is very sociable. The first couple holidays that we were married were difficult for her, because I don't have a lot of friends—which meant that the company party was pretty much all I had to offer in terms of holiday social engagements. Although she'd never admit it, I suspect she had some regrets about being uprooted from her social circle and replanted in such rocky, uncongenial ground.
This year, all of that has changed. Thanks to invitations from church friends and bike club friends, my wife's holiday cheer batteries and our social calendar have been full. Perhaps the most unexpected invitation came from a couple in our neighborhood—unexpected because neither of us had any idea who they were.
It was all very mysterious.
I suppose most normal people would have simply accepted the invitation at face value, but I—a suspicious sort who not only looks a gift horse in the mouth but also orders its dental x-rays—agreed to accept the invitation on condition that we could establish that there would be no Tupperware, timeshare, or multi-level marketing pitch involved.
We were assured there would not be.
Come the evening of the party, Sweetie and I were edgy with anticipation. We snorted, scenting the breeze. Ears twitching, we pawed the...
Sorry. I got caught up.
I spent the obligatory hour trying on various clothing combinations, wanting to show some class without making it appear that I'd given the matter a lot of thought. I'm not sure what my wife was doing with her time, but the muttered curses emanating from depths of her closet were what the folks on CSI would call "a clue".
Finally, we'd managed to make ourselves presentable. We patted the kittens goodbye, locked the house and walked the two blocks to the address on the invitation. Up the walk. Ring the doorbell. From the moment the door opened, our hosts and the other guests were as gracious and interesting as anyone could wish for.
It was a wonderful time, even for an introvert like me.
But the mystery remained: how had we been selected? The same question was on several other guests' minds, and finally a couple of us asked outright. It turned out that our hosts had asked our homebuilder's sales agent to recommend a list of people in the neighborhood whom she thought they would enjoy meeting. The reason for their somewhat cryptic handling of the invitations was that they were a little nervous, fearing that someone might be upset that the agent had given out their names. A valid concern, I'd say. Fortunately, the agent chose well and I didn't see any hint of potential legal action in the smiles of the guests.
There's a fresh crack in my tough, asocial shell. I could learn to like this.
My sweet wife, on the other hand, is very sociable. The first couple holidays that we were married were difficult for her, because I don't have a lot of friends—which meant that the company party was pretty much all I had to offer in terms of holiday social engagements. Although she'd never admit it, I suspect she had some regrets about being uprooted from her social circle and replanted in such rocky, uncongenial ground.
This year, all of that has changed. Thanks to invitations from church friends and bike club friends, my wife's holiday cheer batteries and our social calendar have been full. Perhaps the most unexpected invitation came from a couple in our neighborhood—unexpected because neither of us had any idea who they were.
It was all very mysterious.
I suppose most normal people would have simply accepted the invitation at face value, but I—a suspicious sort who not only looks a gift horse in the mouth but also orders its dental x-rays—agreed to accept the invitation on condition that we could establish that there would be no Tupperware, timeshare, or multi-level marketing pitch involved.
We were assured there would not be.
Come the evening of the party, Sweetie and I were edgy with anticipation. We snorted, scenting the breeze. Ears twitching, we pawed the...
Sorry. I got caught up.
I spent the obligatory hour trying on various clothing combinations, wanting to show some class without making it appear that I'd given the matter a lot of thought. I'm not sure what my wife was doing with her time, but the muttered curses emanating from depths of her closet were what the folks on CSI would call "a clue".
Finally, we'd managed to make ourselves presentable. We patted the kittens goodbye, locked the house and walked the two blocks to the address on the invitation. Up the walk. Ring the doorbell. From the moment the door opened, our hosts and the other guests were as gracious and interesting as anyone could wish for.
It was a wonderful time, even for an introvert like me.
But the mystery remained: how had we been selected? The same question was on several other guests' minds, and finally a couple of us asked outright. It turned out that our hosts had asked our homebuilder's sales agent to recommend a list of people in the neighborhood whom she thought they would enjoy meeting. The reason for their somewhat cryptic handling of the invitations was that they were a little nervous, fearing that someone might be upset that the agent had given out their names. A valid concern, I'd say. Fortunately, the agent chose well and I didn't see any hint of potential legal action in the smiles of the guests.
There's a fresh crack in my tough, asocial shell. I could learn to like this.
1 comment:
It's a great way to meet your neighbors!
Glad all is well down there in the great state of Texas!
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