Drinks? On St Patrick’s Day?

“Hey, how would you feel about a double date then drinks with some co-workers on Friday?”

My first reaction is panic. I’m not proud of it. My ears hear my husband say “let’s socialize with new people”, and my brain hears “let’s slather ourselves with honey, parachute out of a helicopter, and cage fight a hungry bear”. The words initiate a fight or flight response deeply engrained in my ancient lizard brain psyche. Only, I’ve never been one for fighting. So, my knee-jerk reaction is to flee.

Must. Avoid. Socializing. At. All. Costs.

Thankfully, I am a—somewhat rational—adult-ish type person, and possess the capability of overriding those initial responses. My husband, Alex, has wanted me to get to know his co-workers for a while, but working out child care is always a nightmare. Somehow, on this particular occasion, the stars aligned and my sister was able to watch the kids. And, despite my initial explosion of anxiety, and any lingering misgivings, I knew how important this was to Alex. So, like any good wife, I pulled up my big kid underwear and told him it sounded great.

It wasn’t a lie, either. Not necessarily. Sure, the idea of making small talk, trying to connect with virtual strangers made me break out into a cold sweat, but deep inside, underneath all those layers of introversion, anxiety, and awkwardness, I am a social creature. I crave connections, though I struggle to make them. This was the perfect opportunity for me to flex those rusty social skills with my husband by my side as a kind of security blanket, if you will.

As the week went on, my cautious anticipation gave way to actual excitement. I could do this. Meeting new people wasn’t that hard, right? I mean, what was the worst that could happen? That was what my therapist asked me once I finished word vomiting my anxiety all over her. It was a good question. What was the worst that could happen?

It probably wasn’t smart to ask me that as my brain tends to ‘catastrophize and cling to worst case scenarios’—her words, not mine. So, it wasn’t surprising when I immediately spiraled down a rabbit hole of every bad thing that could possibly happen from unknowingly saying something offensive and bringing shame and dishonor on myself and my household, to accidentally setting someone on fire. Not an extremely likely scenario, I’ll admit, but she did ask me what was the worst thing that could happen.

After some pointed redirection, I was forced to admit that really, the worst thing that was likely to happen would be that I might be a little awkward and people might think I’m little weird. Still anxiety inducing, but not quite the crisis scenario I was concocting in my head.

I had to admit, I did feel a bit better after talking with my therapist about it all. I felt optimistic and more prepared to face the reality of socializing with strangers in a public setting.

But there was one thing I hadn’t considered about that evening.

It was St. Patrick’s Day. We were getting drinks, in downtown Nashville, on St. Patrick’s Day.

Suddenly, a minor league, low-key, group get together had morphed into an A league, high-stakes, Night Out. Now, that I was not prepared for.

Soon enough, Friday night rolled around and the butterflies in my stomach had turned to pterodactyls. And, as usual, I was running late getting ready, which only made my anxiety worse. By the time Alex and I were bundled into the car heading out, I was one giant bundle of nerves. All of my little anxious quirks came flooding to the surface. My legs were jiggling, my teeth were gnawing the inside of my cheek, my thoughts were racing, and my mouth was running non-stop.

I was a mess, and I was acutely aware that if I didn’t find a way to relax, that evening would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Unsurprisingly, the more anxious I am, the more awkward I am. A correlation I do not find amusing in the least.

Thankfully, even with insane Nashville traffic, we only ended up being five minutes late to the restaurant. The parking lot was more than half empty and the restaurant was a cute little out of the way place, which gave me hope of being able to ease into the night. Maybe if I could warm up a bit in a lower key environment, I would be ready for the big leagues by the time we met everyone out for drinks later.

The couple we were meeting—one of Alex’s co-workers and his wife—were friendly and engaging. It didn’t take long to warm up to them, and throughout dinner—which was absolutely delicious—conversation flowed easily from one topic to another. I still struggled a bit, as I always do when socializing with new people, largely due to my anxiety and my ADHD.

Anxiety makes me jittery and awkward, second guessing everything I say. And, when you throw in the ADHD-er urge to impulsively blurt out any thought that passes through your brain, appropriate or not, there is a lot to second guess. When I’m overwhelmed or overstimulated, it gets harder for me to reign in the ADHD part of my brain. It’s not uncommon for me to dive headfirst into topics that are way too personal, or make comments that are probably best kept to myself. Inevitably, this makes the anxiety worse. It’s a vicious cycle.

I was immensely grateful that the atmosphere at the restaurant was actually pretty soothing: dim lighting, plenty of space between tables, soft music, and the acoustics dulled the surrounding conversation to a mumbled chatter. This made it much easier for me to focus on the conversation at our own table and to keep up the filter between my brain and my mouth.

As the meal progressed, I found myself slowly relaxing. Things were going so well! I was having a genuinely nice time, and, equally important, everyone else seemed to be as well. Maybe I had blown everything out of proportion before. Or, maybe I was getting better at this whole socializing thing.

Fast forward to the four of us smooshed together in a crowded bar, standing room only, music thump-thumping at a volume you can physically feel rattling your bones. The whole place was filled wall to wall with a sea of bodies wrapped in green. Everyone was shouting to be heard over the music, which had the bartenders practically screaming to be heard over the crowd. People jostled each other constantly, elbowing their way through the packed room—partly due to being more than half way to sloshed, and partly because the place was so crowded they didn’t really have a choice.

My hands fisted inside my jacket pockets as my heart raced and I shifted my weight uneasily, stepping in closer to my husband. There it was, I thought, a familiar uncomfortable feeling gathering at the base of my spine. There was that urge to turn tail and run. And, if it had been just me, I might have done just that. But, I made a commitment to Alex to be there, and having him close helped to temper the pressing need to flee.

Slowly, the rest of our group began to arrive. They all seemed to take the crowd and the pulsing music in stride. As I always do in these moments, I had to wonder what was wrong with me that I wasn’t enjoying myself like everyone else was.

Sure, part of it is the overwhelming social anxiety and how easily I get overstimulated. Another part is definitely my inability to drink like everyone else. I can only have a drink or two before I get sick—long before I reap any of the social lubrication benefits alcohol is known for. It didn’t take too many nights spent heaving into a toilet with a pounding headache to realize that pushing past my two-drink max wasn’t worth it.

But, there was something else to their seeming enjoyment of our environment that night. Something besides the lack of anxiety and the constant stream of alcohol.

Most of the people in our group were in their party years. And, as I looked around, I realized the whole bar was full of people in their party years.

The realization hit me like a metric ton of AARP magazines.

I don’t tend to think too much about my age. It’s not like I’m that old. I mean, I’ll be thirty-three this year. I’m not exactly the crypt keeper. And, with my husband constantly telling me that I behave as if I were perpetually suspended somewhere between eight and eighty-five, I feel like I live in a sort of nebulous gray area when it comes to age.

One thing I know in absolute concrete terms, though? I am most decidedly not in my party years.

 Now, I will say that the ‘party years’ aren’t the same for everyone—it’s more of a phase than an actual set of numerical years in your life. There are those who go through them in their teens, those who enjoy them in their early twenties, and some who experience them later in life. And hey, I’m not here to judge.

So, when I say the bar was chock full of people deep in their party-years, I’m not talking about a specific age. I’m talking about the girl wearing leather pants and a crop top holding a beer in her left hand while she throws back her fourth tequila shot with her right. I’m talking about the guy in the corner in the shamrock blazer and cowboy hat carrying the pitcher of green beer with no extra cups.

It’s a state of being more than anything else. A state that has nothing to do with my being. Not anymore at least.

Despite my general comfort with aging, there’s nothing quite like standing uncomfortably in a crowd of whooping party-goers to make you feel like it’s probably past time to start checking your bone density.

It was with this acute awareness of the divide between myself and the crowd that quite literally surrounded me that I followed our small little group through the mass of drunk people until we finally found a back corner only kind of in the way to camp out at. My head pounded in time with the music as I struggled to follow the conversation happening around me.

We ended up near the open back door, cold air seeping in from outside. It should have been a welcome relief from the body heat of so many people, but I was freezing. Somehow, though, my hands were sweaty little popsicles. I kept them fisted inside my coat to conserve warmth and to hide just how nervous I was.

I felt completely out of my element, but I was going to make the best of the situation. I gathered up as much of my anxiety as I could and shoved it deep down as far as it would go. My husband invited me out to get to know these people—people he enjoyed spending time with—and I was determined to do just that. They all seemed pretty awesome from what I could tell. I just had to put forth the effort to get past my own discomfort.

At first, I only put in the odd comment here or there. It was hard to keep up with the conversation when there was so much going on. Eventually, as it tends to happen when a bunch of people get together, our group began to split up into several smaller groups. With less people vying to speak, it was easier to focus and stay engaged.

Not too long after that, we managed to snag a small, out of the way table and I found myself sitting with two of the other women we were there with. Two was much better. I could talk to two people.

The conversation started slow and a little stilted, but we found a groove after a while. We chatted about our significant others. We talked about how cold it was and how glad we were that we found some space inside—feeling sorry for the dozens of people crowded around the small and useless fires outside. We talked about our jobs, where we grew up, and our lives in general.

And, this is where it came up that one of the women I was sitting with—probably the only other person at the bar besides me who wasn’t drinking—was pregnant. Her and her husband were thrilled to be expecting a little girl!  The thought made me smile and I was happy to be able to congratulate them. I was also, selfishly, glad to have landed on a topic I had experience with and could talk about. With two kids of my own, I had a wealth of material.

Wiping my still sweaty hands on the inside of my jacket pockets, I cautiously waded into the topic a bit. I asked her questions and she responded to them with a smile. I grew a little bolder and told her a little bit about my own pregnancies, commiserating with some of the less fun aspects of growing a tiny human inside of you. She laughed and I felt myself relaxing, growing bolder still.

Then, I felt it happening like a slow-motion wreck, but was unable to stop it. My mouth got ahead of my brain once again and I found myself asking her if she knew about the “90 days of darkness”—the incredibly difficult first ninety days after a baby is born, full of crying and sleep deprivation, and mood swings. I felt the words slipping out of my mouth one after another. I told myself to stop talking. She was going to have a baby soon enough, and I didn’t need to spend what should have been a pleasant night out with friends scaring the absolute crap out of her.

Did I stop talking, though? Of course not.

Instead, I continued my pep talk by telling her that it’s not uncommon in those early days, when you’re un-showered, covered in spit-up, sitting in bed at some ungodly hour of the morning feeding the baby glaring through your tears at your sleeping spouse, to feel like you might have made a mistake having kids. Oh, I assured her that I love my children—and I do! I love them more than life itself and I don’t have any regrets about having them—now. But, there were moments, especially in those first ninety days, that I legitimately didn’t think I could hack it as a mom.

She laughed. I’m still not sure if it was genuine, or if it was out of pity, discomfort, or fear.

I laughed myself. Anything to stop more words from coming out of my mouth. I’d said far too much as it was. I just met this woman. She really didn’t need to know all of that. But, as usual, the dynamic sucktastic duo of anxiety and ADHD put my foot right in my mouth. I managed not only to way overshare, but about a topic that is pretty scary and personal to begin with.

It didn’t take long for the other woman we were sitting with, younger than us with no kids, to steer the conversation back to safer territory. I thanked the gods, universe, and Betty White for the reprieve. Wallowing in my incredible awkwardness, I sank back in my seat a little bit and committed to thoroughly vetting any other words that left my mouth that evening. Because, clearly, I couldn’t be trusted to carry on a normal conversation when left to my own devices.

The topic shifted back to talk of hometowns and college, jobs and commutes, and eventually, when the rest of our group sort of merged back into ours, turned toward work drama—as it usually does when you get a bunch of co-workers together. I sat there listening, not really saying much. Partly because I didn’t work with them, and, as such, didn’t have a lot to contribute to the conversation. Partly because I was a little afraid of what would come out of my mouth if I opened it again.

We didn’t stay too much longer after that. The kids have been on a sleep strike the last few weeks, so I was pretty exhausted. Not to mention that, as an introvert with social anxiety, peopling really takes it out of me. I knew I was hitting a wall and we soon said our goodbyes, winding our way out of the still packed bar and back to the parking lot.

On the drive home, Alex and I chatted a little bit about the night. And, while I was still squirming internally about my awkwardness and slowly unclenching from the overstimulating atmosphere, I realized something. I survived. Not only that, but I did enjoy myself.

So, okay, maybe I didn’t work myself up for nothing. There were definitely parts of the evening that were difficult and uncomfortable—or, that I made uncomfortable. But, in spite of that, I still managed to talk to strangers, make connections, laugh, and I made it out alive.

My therapist will be so proud.