Grace: My Middle Name & Social Cues

Maybe it’s because I didn’t go to sleep until 2:30am*. Or maybe it’s because the 3rd annual Ugly Sweater Christmas Party is tonight and I’m so excited I’m not thinking clearly.

Either way, I’ve made a mockery of all things graceful today.

Let’s first discuss my trip to Walmart and the blueberry walnut bread I sampled in the bakery. That is worth a trip out of the house, right there. Fast forward to the register: my cashier was pretty grumpy which immediately makes my brain scream, “Oooo girl. You are going to LOVE me by the end of this transaction. Let’s turn that frown upside down.” (It’s an odd personality quirk of mine.) So, naturally, I am just laying on the charm, joking about this and that, and smiling a whole lot. My sneaky plan worked (read: she totally loved me by the end). Or maybe she just loved the fact that I had a hunk of blueberry stuck in my grill the entire time I was attempting to bond with her. Stupid Walmart and your sticky-berry-bread samples.

So then there was Staples. The trip itself was uneventful, but when I got home, I noticed I was rockin this in public:

Don’t focus here on the random sorta braid in the front. Focus instead on the protuberance in the back.

Sometimes I channel my inner Snooki. NBD.

Smooth. Real smooth.

So. A Christmas party last night.  

My friend Aimee invited me to a party she was hosting. She claims she reads my blog but that’s doubtful. Read the section above. Who knowingly invites that to their party? Maybe I’m her charity case, but the joke’s on you sucker – I had fun. A lot of fun.

It dawned on me last night that I might be losing my grip on social cues.

Most people probably left at 10 last night; I left around 11. It’s always been in my nature (and my family’s nature if you’ve ever met my kinfolk) to be the last or next-to-last people to leave an event.

These days, though, it’s nearly impossible to break myself away to go home at all. Since I now get out by myself an average of once every two months, I treat that one night like a never-ending party.

Each outing, I inch my way closer and closer to this scene:
Host/Hostess: Well…I guess since every one else has left, I’m going to go get ready for bed.
Me: Alright, sweeeeet. I’ll just be in the kitchen polishing off that plate of brownies.
Host/Hostess (10 minutes later): Allllriiiighty then. I’m off to get some shut eye….
Me: [fake yawn] Yea, I guess it is about that time. I should probably head out. … but just to clarify, that was a definite no on continuing this party at Billy Bob’s, then?

Save me from myself.

(And, Aimee, if you’re reading this…I didn’t think it was that awkward that I asked to sleep in the guest room in case the party spontaneously started back up again. Tell your family to loosen up.)