The night before last I came to realize that I have become a Party Pooper. When did this happen!? Before age 30 I was the organizer, the loyal attender, the one who shut off the lights. I was fun and smiley and made rounds at parties. But lately my threshold for whirling social activity has shrunk to a “make an appearance” level. I much prefer to keep my hobnobbing to a 1:1 or 1:2-3 ceiling. Anything much above that is exhausting.
Now I anticipate, in utter disgust at myself, the act of leaving early. Is there a tactful way to tackle this? I sneak to gather my things, I strategize a shuffle toward the exit route, I try to avoid direct eye contact. “Pance! Are you LEAVING!?” Dammit. I imagine this will render me quite unpoopular soon.