Post-party blues. I had more than twenty people over last night, and all I’ve got to show for it is a kitchen floor covered in beery footprints — someone brought a keg?! — and a pantry full of tortilla fragments and mostly-empties.
It was fun, which frankly sort of surprised me. For someone who used to be scared of going to parties at all — or really even just talking to people in general — hosting one is kind of an achievement. I spent a good part of the day cleaning up, buying supplies, and just generally fretting.
But! Everyone had a good time, nobody got drunk enough to be sick, and nobody seemed to be skulking around in the shadows and feeling left out. I got to play the good host, going from group to group, making sure everyone had a drink, providing blankets and couches for the unfit-to-drive. I was proud of myself.
I wasn’t quite prepared for the letdown afterwards, though, and I admit that I spent a good part of today being lazy and watching too many episodes of Angel, just trying to adjust to the place being empty again.
So, things learned from my first hosting experience: (1) If every time someone asks what they can bring you say “beer”, that will probably be too much beer. (2) Guests are not always adept enough in body language to pick up on the universal symbol for “I’m enjoying your company tremendously but I would enjoy falling asleep before dawn EVEN MORE.” (3) Just because it’s a party full of nice Catholic people doesn’t mean nobody’s beard will get set on fire.1
I think I might be too tired to have a point.