I’m writing this while I’m supposed to be socializing.
Which, if you think about it, is a strong indicator of how this evening is going… for me.
For everyone else?
Oh, they are thriving.
Hubby included.
Radiant. Engaged. Positively buoyant in a sea of handshakes and conversation.
Meanwhile, I am over here realizing six months on the couch have left my knees woefully undertrained.
Hubby and I are at the grand opening of a new store for the company he retired from.
And by “retired” I mean he retired…and then, almost immediately, got himself rehired in a new role — working mostly from home — in what we are calling “semi-retirement.”
Which, at the time, felt like a great idea.
Probably because it was mine.
I would like to formally withdraw my support.
Immediately.
Now—to be fair—this is a fantastic event.
Beautiful setup. Great turnout. Everyone looks genuinely happy to be here.
People are reconnecting, laughing, hugging, networking like professionals.
This is their Super Bowl.
As a spouse, I am technically a team member.
A very underperforming one.
There are approximately 250 people here. Possibly more. They seem to be multiplying—but in a festive, successful way.
There are also—conservatively—three different types of sound happening at the same time:
A band outside
Something with a microphone inside
And a mysterious third source that sounds like a DJ who refuses to be ignored
Four, if you count the tinnitus ringing in both ears.
For me, it’s less “grand opening gala” and more “auditory Hunger Games.”
Everyone else? Loving it.
Swaying. Smiling. Fully immersed.
Me? Trying to figure out which direction sound is coming from so I can nod appropriately.
Now, to be clear, I like socializing.
I like the quick hello.
The warm smile.
The light joke.
The graceful exit before the long cousin story begins.
That’s where I shine.
I am a social sprinter.
That is my lane.
And for the first 45 minutes?
I was spectacular.
Gold medal spectacular.
But this event is not built for social sprinters.
This is a marathon crowd.
And my husband—who is younger, more energetic, and apparently powered by human interaction—is absolutely in his element.
At one point, I watched him effortlessly transition from one conversation to the next like a social ninja.
Meanwhile, I nodded and laughed at something that may or may not have been directed at me.
Confidence is key in these situations.
It was around that moment I realized something important about myself:
I do not like standing for extended periods of time.
Not sure I ever did.
I’m going to go ahead and blame that on my chemo couch phase…
followed by my sporadic gym phase…
which I am absolutely still blaming on the chemo.
That feels fair.
Somewhere around the one hour and 45 minute mark — purely by coincidence — my legs began filing formal complaints.
Not subtle ones.
Official documentation.
So I did what any reasonable, slightly older, socially overwhelmed adult would do.
I executed the classic maneuver:
The Restroom Dodge.
I made my way with purpose—focused, determined, slightly dramatically— toward the universal sanctuary.
But instead of going in…
I found a chair.
A glorious, unexpected, cushioned chair.
And I sat.
Not a polite sit.
A full, committed, “this is my home now” sit.
From this chair, I’ve discovered something important:
For me, watching people socialize…
is far more enjoyable than participating.
From my seated throne near the restroom, I can observe:
The enthusiastic handshakers
The genuinely engaged listeners
The “I’ve been trying to exit this conversation for 12 minutes” crowd
The phone-checkers pretending it’s urgent
It’s like an indoor nature documentary.
A happy, successful, well-attended indoor nature documentary.
And I am the older, slightly cranky narrator who wandered off-script.
At this point, I’m not entirely sure when I’ll rejoin society.
Possibly when the music consolidates into a single, identifiable genre — ideally one I recognize.
Possibly when chairs become more widely available.
Or possibly when my husband—who I love dearly and blame entirely—comes to find me and escorts me back into the wild.
Until then…
I will be here.
Resting.
Observing.
Acknowledging that this is, in fact, a wonderful event…
…just not my sport.
-Pattie
P.S.
Update from the next phase of the evening:
I am now in the car.
Shoes off.
Feet up.
Dignity fully restored.
The muffled music from the event is drifting out into the parking lot like a distant reminder of choices I enthusiastically supported earlier and no longer recognize as my own.
And I am not alone.
Scattered across nearby vehicles are my people—
The early leavers.
The “we showed our face” crowd.
The socially exhausted.
We are sitting in quiet solidarity…
while, just inside, the party continues—lively, joyful, and exactly as it should be.
And honestly?
Good for them.
Truly.
We’ll be right out here.
Like civilized adults.
If you’ve ever smiled, nodded, and quietly planned your escape… you’re going to fit right in here.
Third Act With Pattie 