Tales of a dinner party
And other notes on growing up.
I’ve had many thoughts lately about what it means to be a grown up.
This may be because I often sit idle on public transport looking at other grown ups. I sit and wonder: Who are all these grown up humans with whom I am sharing this tube ride? What binds us together? Usually, it is just the state of being a grown up.
It may also be because, as you may recall from previous posts, I can drive now, just like a real grown up. Driving means you can make your own decisions about where to go and where to stay. Now, I can drive ten miles to buy some bath salts or because I want sushi. These feel like very grown up decisions.
Autonomy is very grown up.
I also went to a dinner party on Saturday night, just like a real grown up.
It was a bring and share, which gave everyone an opportunity to judge the contributions of everyone else. This is an occupation in which grown ups excel, I find.
Anyway, everything about the dinner party was VERY grown up. It was a masterclass in easy understated wealth, from the wrap around plate glass dining area to the cozy wood stove to the squashy cushions in the designated wine drinking area. When I asked where the loo was, the hostess explained where the nearest loo was. In my house, it would just be The Loo. She also told me how the dining table was made out of reclaimed cart wheels. I heard “cartwheels” and was visibly confused like a complete twat, imagining ten year olds turning cartwheels on a lawn, until she gently inflected cart. wheels.