The Power to Upset Me

“You have my solemn promise. I won’t do or say anything to embarrass you at the party.” But could I keep my promise?

“We live in Roswell,” the woman said.

“My daughter invited us to go to Roswell with her this weekend, but we already had plans to come here. We’ve been looking forward to this party.”

She blinked at me.

Unsure what I’d said wrong but having the distinct feeling that I had inserted un pied dans la bouche, i. e. committed a faux pas, I jabbered on. “We went to the Roswell museum last summer. Interesting but not quite what I expected.”

“What museum?” She looked at me askance.

“In Roswell.” So, in the restroom I googled Roswell. It’s in South Dakota, New York, Georgia, and New Mexico. Did I miss one?

Generally I did pretty well, though. I remembered to stand tall, and most of the time I sat with my legs together. I didn’t say, “Are you a Democrat or Republican?” There were two women though who looked almost alike, and they wore similar dresses. I messed up talking to them. Otherwise, I did pretty well.

Maybe my clothes were wrong. I wore the cutest leggings imaginable—white with lace inserts at the outer ankles. A man came up to me and said, “I’m so sorry. How did you hurt your legs?”

“I didn’t.”

He bent over and looked down. “Oh, I see. Those are your shoes.”

He was serious.

What was there to say?

Then there was a guy who sat in the corner talking to my husband. Since the people at the party were total strangers and interrupting conversations was becoming tiresome, I decided to enter the little group of my husband and his friend. I can’t remember what I asked the man, but I’ll never forget his answer: “Do you need to go to the head?”

I could have done better maybe. Fifty years ago I would have hidden in the restroom and cried. Twenty-five years ago I would have laughed. Last weekend I reminded myself that others don’t have the power to upset me. My husband calls me a rebellious individual, but the truth is I am who I am. And we had a wonderful time.