Sam and I just hosted his law firm’s annual summer party. When I agreed to it, back in June, the summer had just begun, and, like most things I say yes to, I always think there’s a decent chance that something- say, a devastating meteor strike- will intercede so I won’t have to actually go through with it. But, as with most things I say yes to, the date arrived without catastrophe, and I had no choice but honor my commitment.
This was my first time hosting a party that other people were wholly responsible for. I had no hand or head in planning, shopping, setting up, cooking, serving, or cleaning up when it was over. All I had to do besides show up was give permission for people to occupy my yard and make sure I had toilet paper.
Magically, while I was out getting highlights in my hair, everything happened. I came home to a tented backyard populated by tables with tablecloths and chairs and games and flower arrangements and bug spray and candles. It looked like the work of a combo Martha Stewart/fairy godmother, though in this case it was a rental company and the office manager, Sean.
Later on, people arrived, along with a pizza and gelato truck and a traveling bar whimsically set up in a VW bus. It was hot outside but the thunderstorms that had been threatening stayed away. I put on a dress and mingled. People kept thanking me for the party. I thought, thank you for what? I mean, parties are work, if you actually throw them, but subtracting the work and any attachment to the outcome, parties are, well, parties.
In the future, if asked to throw a party, me being me, I’d still say yes, and pray for that meteor strike. But hey, I’d be more than happy to host.