A week ago I was invited to a birthday party. Every single thing screamed: go there. I liked the host, but felt I didn't have enough opportunities or platforms to socialize with them. I didn't know any of the other guests, so it constituted "putting yourself out there". And the guest list consisted almost exclusively of gay menfolk.
My reaction? A bout of anxiety. At some point (at around 3 days to D-Day) I had to tell myself I'm not going *wink wink*, so that I would stop stressing about it. And I didn't make up my mind literally until I had to go out this very second to buy a birthday cake, because they were closing the bakery in 25 minutes. And I only did that after calling a friend on a complete whim (safety blanket response) and learning that I couldn't come over to them instead and whine about being fucked up, because... they had a legitimate reason for me not to do that.
Eventually I did go, even though when I put on my "I am a viable sex object" shirt, one of the buttons fell off, which I took for a bad omen. And of course everything was OK, if a bit awkward at first. And of course the coolest people there (or rather: the people I clicked with most) were a straight couple, since I was built to die alone. No prospects materialized, but, you know, the sky didn't exactly come crashing down either, and I actually had fun and a few good laughs - particularly when I sat down to eat some cake and saw this to my left:
And yet I haven't had this much anxiety about anything in at least the last year or so. Shit really freaked me out. I hope it's a phase.
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