Parties: My Social Olympics (Minus the Medal, Plus the Flu)

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You know that feeling when you RSVP “yes” to a party and immediately regret being born? Same. Every. Time. What have I done?!

Here’s the thing: I love parties… in theory. The music, the people, the mini quiches that taste like regret and cheese. I show up, give 120%, make jokes, pretend I’m not sweating through my bra, and genuinely have a blast. I’m loud, I laugh until I choke on an pizza, and if I make even one person laugh, I feel like I’ve done God’s work [angel trumpets].

But then I come home and die.

Not metaphorically. I physically collapse like a raccoon after a rave. I lie on my bed in complete silence, overstimulated, dehydrated, mascara melting into my pores, and convinced I’ve got early-onset flu. Every. Single. Time. Again: What have I done?!

Question: Can you be an introvert AND an extrovert? Answer: Yes. It’s called being broken. I gain energy from people... but I also want to hurl myself into a sensory deprivation tank and not speak for 32 hours afterward. It’s giving duality. It’s giving social Gemini. It’s giving “please cancel so I can miss you and I can stay home.”

Let’s Break Down the Party Species, Shall We?

The Chaos Goblin (Ta-da, it’s me)

This person is the human Red Bull of the party. They arrive already laughing, singing, dance badly on purpose, and will 100% start a game of “Who’s Most Likely To…” and overshare before dessert. Their motto? “If I’m not embarrassing myself, did I even go?”

The Snack Dragon

They find the food table and never leave. They’re not talking to anyone unless you’re offering them more pizza. They came for carbs and vibes, and they will sit there like a royal troll under the buffet bridge. Tupperware in purse? Possible. Judgment? None. Just feed the dragon.

The Human Houseplant

They're there. You just don’t know it. They sit quietly in the coroner, sip one drink for four hours, and stare at everyone like they’re watching a National Geographic special titled Drunk Millennials in Their Natural Habitat. Silent, but secretly judging your dance moves.

The Liquid Courage Disaster

They start cute. One drink, two drinks… and suddenly they’re trying to kiss the host’s dog while singing Elvis Presley Love me tender off-key. Their eyes go in two directions, their body does the worm (without warning), and someone always ends up either crying or in the bushes. Sometimes both. Unfortunately, they often leave their entrails in the chamber of secrets to the chair with the drain.

The Chill Unicorns

They drink moderately, converse intelligently, and leave before things get weird. These are the unicorns. The rare, mythical creatures of balance. We respect them. We do not understand them.

Party Math for Millennials

The older you get, the earlier the party needs to start. I'm nearly 40. If your party starts at 8 p.m., I need an energy drink drip, a blood sacrifice, and an emergency exit plan, and plan B, and plan C, to be honest all plans till Z. My ideal party? Kicks off at noon. I’m home by 3 p.m., in sweats by 3:07, and Googling “how to fake your own death to avoid Sunday brunch” by 3:15.

Someone ALWAYS Loses Something

At every party, someone loses something. Phone, keys, dignity — you name it. One time, a girl lost her underwear. Just the underwear. And then 9 months later, she gained a whole human. Wild how that works.

Integration Parties: Work Gets Weird

Integration parties are the corporate Hunger Games. You think you know Janet from accounting? Nope. Give her three glasses of Prosecco and suddenly she’s doing body shots off the coffee machine.

My favorite story? At one of my old jobs, two office divas (think Regina George energy) got a little too cozy at the staff party and decided that publicly fingering each other in a pub was a bonding activity. Nothing says “team building” like shocking your coworkers into therapy.

On the plus side, Monday meetings were never boring again.

Home Parties: Golden Rule? Don’t Host.

Be sure that this is not your house. Hosting means cleaning, buying snacks for people who’ll ghost last minute, and finding mysterious stains on your ceiling afterward. No thank you. I prefer to attend — show up, vibe, and Irish exit before 9 p.m. with a tote bag full of snacks.

Hosting also means someone will:

• Break a chair doing the worm

• Spill red wine on your rug

• Use your best towel to clean this spill

Final Thoughts from the Socially Burnt

Parties are magical and traumatic. Beautiful and ridiculous. One minute you're talking about houseplants, the next you're crying in the kitchen with someone named Jess about the existential dread of aging.

Me? I’ll keep going to parties, laughing too loud, dancing too hard, and ghosting right before things get real. Because even though I need three business days to recover, those messy, hilarious, glittery moments? They're the good stuff. Fantastic memories.

And as long as I keep my underwear on and my dignity mostly intact, I’d say that’s a win.

See you on the dance floor — for like, five minutes. Then I’m sneaking out to taxi home and eat chips in bed.

Do you have a crazy party story? Share it.