A night on the Town

Are you coming tonight?

Anyone else would be thrilled to receive such a text.

They would reply “of course!” and their faces would light up. Right away, they’d wonder about the new friends they would be making by last call.

A night out for most people is something to look forward to.

In me, though, it triggers anxiety.

I stared down at those five words in the blue bubble on my phones screen. Instantly, I began running through my inventory of excuses. What hadn’t I used in a while?

I could say I was broke, that the work week had been slow and that I couldn’t afford a big night out. I would suggest a walk or a coffee for the next day. After all, an afternoon spent with one person was a lot less intimidating that an entire evening out with who knows how many.  

I could tell the author of the text that I had my period, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had used that as an alibi. Had it been only two weeks ago? I’m sure she wouldn’t be tracking, but still; better to be safe than sorry.

I could simply say that I was tired, or not feeling well, both being reliable go to’s. No one ever questions it, there’s no pressure to make follow up plans; the recipient simply responds with a sympathetic ‘aww that’s too bad. Feel better!’

I looked around my cozy bedroom with my phone still in my hand. The lit up screen stared up at me. A cup of tea was sitting beside me on the nightstand. A book lay at the foot of the bed, earmarked where I had left off a couple of hours ago. I had already taken a shower and gotten into comfy clothes. The house had been tidied. It was finally time to turn off my brain and wind down, to recharge the batteries.

As most evenings did, this one lay before me wide open and commitment free, and I was content to spend it completely solo.

I tapped out my most used response to the offer to come out, but my thumb hovered over the send button. 

Calls to come out were always so conflicting.

On the one hand, being home is just blissful. When I’m here, there’s no need to put up any kind of façade. I don’t need to watch what I say. There are no loud, repetitive songs or hollered conversations at home. Layers of cheap perfume and aftershave don’t invade my senses. No one bumps into me or crams themselves into my space with the assumption I’d be thrilled with the attention, and when I have to go to the bathroom I don’t have to wait in line.

There is a catch, though.

New friends don’t spring up out of nowhere.

Being an introvert isn’t necessarily something I don’t like about myself: I think it makes me interesting. I’ve always seen extroverted people as shallow and painfully insecure, and I take pride in having a stable sense of self without needing validation from strangers. But it absolutely does get lonely. After all, what good is knowing how to knit or cook well if you don’t have anyone to make anything for?

Fully aware that if I kept saying no I would eventually stop being invited, I deleted the previous message that turned down the invitation and crafted a new one. I found out when and where my friends were meeting and stood up, willing myself the get excited about an adventure out of the house after dark.

My typical uniform is yoga pants and old T-shirts. Way on the other end of the spectrum I have some beautiful dresses, but nothing in between, so I’m always way too overdressed on these occasions. Not only that, my ‘going out’ clothes are almost all from 10 years ago, so I get to add ‘being out of style’ to my list of reasons that I’m uncomfortable.

I chose my favourite jeans and a plan but clean sleeveless top and finished the look off with a bit of jewellery, plus some makeup that I never quite learned how to apply properly. My hair was thrown into an updo and I gave myself one last glance in the mirror. I wrote off the nagging feeling that I had forgotten something as just my entire being rebelling against leaving the comfort of my nest. My Uber arrived just as I went outside to wait for it.

All too quickly I made it downtown; it’s amazing at how little traffic there is at night. After paying some ridiculous cover charge and having my ID and temperature checked, I stepped inside and wondered how I was supposed to find anything, let alone my friends, in this dim light. The air in the place was thick with the heat of too many bodies crammed into too small a space.

Just as I started to consider turning around and walking out, the girl who invited me saw me and yelled my name over the relentless bass that filled the room.

I sat down and some introductions were made. Even if I could have heard the names being thrown at me, it was impossible to remember them all. I focused my attention on the three of those sat closest to me. Some awkward eye contact was exchanged with the woman adjacent from me, and I realized she was waiting for me to speak first. I racked my brain for an insightful question or something funny to say but came up short so instead I grabbed the tiny paper pyramid in the middle of the table that listed the drink specials and pretended to read it.

Around me, the conversations continued as if I hadn’t just interrupted everything with my arrival. When the waitress appeared to take my drink order, I had to speak loud enough for her to hear me, and that seemed to remind everyone within earshot that I was, in fact, seated with them.

One of the names that I vowed to remember before forgetting took the lead and asked me where I lived. Others around him turned their eyes and followed his lead, peppering me with question: where did I work, was I from here, how did I know so-and so. I often forget that conversations ought to go both ways, and that people expect to be asked about their personal lives as well. It’s called ‘getting to know each other’, and I’ve always been bad at it.

Eventually the group lost interest in me (or, more likely, figured that I was disinterested in them) and the quiet roar of small talk increased as people paired off to talk to those nearest them; it was much too loud in the bar for everyone at the table to hear each other. Instinctively, I started to retreat into my own mind. An invisible shell formed around me and I began to fade away. Physically, I was seated right there with everyone. Mentally, I was the only one in the room. I created to-do lists in my head, reminisced on moments of the day that stood out to me, wondered if I could afford to take a road trip on my next long weekend, all the while sipping my drink while the chatter around me that seemed deafening only a couple of minutes ago faded away to a nonstop hum of background noise, a soundtrack to my inner dialogue.

Suddenly, I was pulled back to the present moment when the waitress appeared once again to announce that they were doing last call. To my dismay, everyone got one more round. I couldn’t very well be the only one to go home now after sitting here quietly all night, so I got one more too. I considered just getting up and leaving, assured that no one would notice, but decided it would be a weird thing to do, then realized I must have gotten a bit drunk to even come up with the idea.

Tonight was turning out like every other night. Every single time I craved a change, I promised myself to be cordial, interesting, charming. I vowed to use every ounce of effort I had in me to keep my mind where I was, to engage in the company I was with. But here I was, yet again, dissociating and keeping one eye on the clock, counting down the seconds until it was over and I could go home and tell myself at least I tried.

It was just too hard. This place, these people, the sheer number of them, was overwhelming. Their excitement and energy seemed to suck the life right out of me and no matter how hard I fought against it, my mind was not willing to stay.

For the next 45 minutes, I focused on just looking at whoever was talking. I could do that. I could probably even look natural at the same time.

Finally we got kicked out of the bar. We huddled as a group on the sidewalk, eventually splitting off into pairs as our Ubers arrived. My friend the instigator and I got into the same one and thankfully it was just us. We shut our doors and each let out exhausted sighs.

“I really appreciate you coming out tonight,” she said, looking at me sideways. “I know this isn’t really your scene, but I’m glad you came. Did you have fun?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was the toughest thing I’d done all week. I wasn’t honest enough to tell her that these invites only left me feeling empty and bad about myself. I wasn’t brave enough to ask her to stop doing it. Because as tiring as this night was, my occasional participation seems to be the only thing keeping this friend in my life.

So I summoned the last of my strength, put on a happy face, and nodded enthusiastically.

I hoped she was too drunk to notice how fake it was.