It's been almost four years since my last bat mitzvah. Aside from an occasional wedding or funeral, I haven't spent much time since then hobnobbing with Jews clad in their finest black. Which is a good thing, I suppose, since these days I find it hard to stay awake past nine o'clock. Not a problem at funerals, but it's kind of humiliating when the folks on either side of you during the hora find themselves dragging you around the dance floor on your heels, your Spanx hanging out like Raggedy Ann's bloomers.
As I jokingly threatened to show up at tonight's shindig as a drunken uninvited guest (my Starbucks buddies thought it would be great; they have absolutely no idea how downhill things go for me after ten in the morning), a friend of mine arrived and diverted my attention from my fantasies of dancing the night away. Closer to my age than the bar mitzvah throwing crowd, he told me, somewhat sheepishly, about the trauma he had suffered the night before when a neighbor popped in for a visit.
"I fell asleep while we were talking," he told me, still reeling from the shame.
I just stared at him, wondering why he thought that was so outlandish. "So you don't regularly fall asleep in the evenings when people are talking to you?" I was baffled by the pained expression on his face.
This time he stared at me. You'd think I had said something odd. "Of course not. And it wasn't even nine o'clock."
Now I was really confused. I couldn't even imagine how he was awake enough to hear the doorbell at nine o'clock at night, but obviously this guy is nocturnal. I tried to reassure him. "Maybe you ate something funny? Or maybe the neighbor fell asleep too and he is completely unaware of your little nap?" Both seemed to be reasonably likely alternatives to me. He got up, politely telling me he had a lot of work to do. "At least you're rested," I said, thinking he needed a little encouragement. He gave me what I thought was a bit of a fake smile.
Anyway, back to the bar mitzvah folks, who were still chattering away about the upcoming evening festivities. The dad, feigning nonchalance, was clearly nervous. Will there be enough alcohol? It's a party for thirteen year old kids and an adult crowd made up mostly of Jews. Worry more about the sweet table. Will I be able to find the right words to say when I speak to my kid? Who cares? Nobody's listening; they're thinking about the sweet table. Do I have to tell my wife she's my soul mate? No, but it beats telling her your girlfriend is your soul mate. Really, say it if you can manage it with a straight face. There's no down side.
The good news is he seemed calmer after I offered up my support and wisdom. I felt vindicated, and a little warm and fuzzy, the way you tend to feel when you perform a random act of kindness. His smile was genuine, not like the one my friend was sporting when he darted away from me earlier. I think I just relate better to morning people.
After he left, his friends were wondering whether there would be drinking at the service before the party. I told them I didn't think so, and that it probably wouldn't be appropriate for them to bring their own booze. They seemed disappointed. "Is it okay to drink before the service?" one of them asked.
They're morning people. I tried to imagine how on earth they would even stay awake long enough to make it to cocktail hour if they had a drink before the service. Of course they're a bit younger than I am, so maybe they can muster up a bit more stamina for special occasions. With the necessary caveats, I told them I thought it would be okay, in moderation.
If I decide to crash, I'll definitely be drinking before I go. Lots of coffee that is. With a chaser of migraine pills for the extra caffeine, just in case the afternoon baristas don't know how to make a potent brew. It's not that I don't trust them; I just relate better to morning people.
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