D is for dinner party

I had never been invited to a dinner party before. It all seemed very grown up and exciting.

Of course I faffed about for ages over my outfit and decided on a simple BBD (big black dress) I did something unfathomable and therefore unrepeatable with my hair and I felt good.

I obviously knew the host couple but I hadn’t yet met anyone else who would be attending. As a permanent singleton, this is always an exciting and terrifying prospect. You never know if well-intentioned friends are going to spring an unsuspecting blind date from nowhere (not always unwelcome, but in my experience highly cringeville)

That would have been preferable to the actual outcome of the evening.

Oh yeah, brace yourself. It’s about to get fifty shades of awful….

So I arrived promptly like a good dinner party guest with a big smile and a bottle in my hand (I’d seen Come Dine With Me, I knew what to do)

Immediately I was introduced to a young chap called Asshat (names have been changed) who was posh and a tiny bit (hella load) pompous. But as a polite young professional I could smile and play nicely as our hosts tended to things in the kitchen.

(It is worth mentioning here that there was no romantic intention from our hosts, this wasn’t a blind date in disguise – it might have been the very worst if it was! There were other solo guests too)

Small talk is my forte. I can literally talk to anyone about anything for any length of time. We all have gifts. Incessant nattering is mine.

We covered such exciting topics as the weather, work and the aromas emanating from the oven.

I must have revealed something about myself that sparked a flicker of recognition as he suddenly clicked his fingers and exclaimed with a massive grin

“Ahh! I know who you are now! You’re Fat Kate!”

Our hosts re-entered the room at the exact moment I wanted to die.

Since this time my internal scriptwriter has come up with some incredibly witty, pithy put-downs in response to Asshat. Each one of them would have floored him and questioned his manhood as well as intelligence. But at the time? Nothing.

My gift for always finding something to say failed me and I crumbled. I can’t remember what I actually said. Something along the lines of “Yeah, that’s me”

Suddenly I felt stupid. And ashamed. Is this how my friends referred to me?

Did I have a cruel nickname I knew nothing about? Had I been invited as a twisted joke?

If I could have cried and ran out of the building I would have done.

Instead I smiled and cried within.

I didn’t eat a single thing at that dinner party.

Epilogue : I have seen Asshat a handful of times since that evening (small world) He is still an Asshat. I have since developed excellent mechanisms for dealing with such types and was able to tell him exactly where to put his married penis when he very kindly offered to share it with me. You wouldn’t believe it….

Things I know…

I know that he was a nasty man. I know that I did nothing wrong (other than failing to stick up for myself) I know that if this same thing happened today I would handle it differently. I know I probably shouldn’t give this evening any more thought.

D is for Done.

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7 thoughts on “D is for dinner party

  1. That makes my stomach hurt. What kind of person speaks that way to another person and what kind of people called you that behind your back? Certainly not friends. They can’t be friends.

  2. LOVE the way you write – not often I want to laugh out loud, cry and punch someone in the face, all in the space of two minutes! D is for something else too – rhymes with ‘thick’ – and this chap sounds like both! x

  3. A sad situation told with humor and humility. I’m glad to hear about your growth and also that you see not sticking up for yourself was something to change. Great story.

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