I sat down at the kitchen table, taking the only remaining spot. The others seemed oblivious to my presence, and the conversation continued without missing a beat. It felt awkward. Dinner party or not, it reminded me of high school days when you were either in our out, not a gathering of worldly thirty and forty somethings.
Funny how that still stings, even if for a bit. That desire to be seen, to be heard, to be included – the one we try to be so nonchalant about – doesn’t go away. We either try harder, sip our wine and say yes when we mean no, or walk away deflated, drain our wine and ponder why not.
I looked around the table and listened to the conversation about thoughts, ideas, events. To be fair, they seemed to have had known each other since they were kids. They were in the inner circle.
As the inside jokes and the nostalgia ramped up, it was pretty clear there would be no “in” with the in-crowd for me.
Luckily, as a thirty or forty-something, I had learned that I didn’t have to pin my hopes on one table. One of their own had invited me as a gesture of friendship, a kindness I appreciated, but I wasn’t obligated to stay. There were other tables around.
I finished my food and walked out into the backyard to check on the kids. I heard peals of laughter and shuffling of little feet. They, at least, had found a way to play well with each other. I smiled.
My husband spotted me, and waved me over to join him. I walked over to his table, and the air felt distinctly different. Amid a few nods and a couple of hellos, I sat down. Darkness had fallen, and the crescent moon looked beautiful.
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