Sour Grates

Last night I went to my first holiday party. As I sat on the subway awkwardly holding my bottle of wine on my lap and feeling the chemicals from my eye makeup swirling noxiously over my eyeballs, I felt it was an unfortunate night to try to start 'Buddenbrooks.' I couldn't concentrate on the quaint old masterpiece and found myself just staring at other people on the subway, trying to breathe in my anxiety and breathe out my anxiety, in the Buddhist fashion.

Even after all these years, I feel miserable with fear going to parties, as if some awful humiliation awaits me. It's irrational, though the Times says this morning virtually everyone approaches a party feeling this way. But a lot of my good friends were going to be at the party and another good friend was giving it and so what was the fear about?

I found myself blaming it on New York, as usual. My trip to midtown east took a bit more than an hour but it felt more like three. I felt irrational rage at the bizarrely long climb from the subway platform to the street at 61st and Lexington. Happy revelers all about 26 years old frolicked on the streets as I humorlessly hurried past them. Why is everyone here so young? Why is their conversation so insipid? I fumed to myself in a wonderfully holiday-spirit way. Why do so many people believe so deeply in living in this horrid, barren metropolis? How can you preserve a good mood here?

I had a good time talking to my friends at the party. There was tons of good food and wine. I shared a taxi home to Brooklyn with a friend that cost about $180 (well, it felt like that) and apart from the denseness of the driver ("Left here. No, left. You'll want to get into the left --oh well, take the next left") it was, as always, heavenly luxury to ride home from a party. But I seem to feel anger over every condition of living in this once dreamed-about city.