Just Saying No to Parties Will Surely Lead to Harder Questions

I’m determined to get through life without therapy, despite frequent exhortations to the contrary from friends who are convinced they’ve spotted worrisome behavioral traits. They mention some quirky conduct and tell me it’s a manifestation of this or that personality disorder. I laugh them off, secure in the knowledge that I’m perfectly healthy except for, of course, being a tormented genius.

Now that the holiday season is here, however, a longstanding problem is constantly brought to the fore--namely, my aversion to parties.

Everybody’s having a party, it seems. I know people mean well by inviting me, and I know when someone asks you, the proper response isn’t to say, “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” But what are you supposed to say?

If you say, “I don’t go to parties,” they always respond with, “How come?”

“Uh, well, I, uh . . . “

So, then when I’m sitting home in my jammies under my blankie and everyone else is at the party, I find myself asking, Hmm, why don’t I like parties? What’s wrong with me?

It’s not that I have such an exciting life. When the wildest thing you do all week is enter your secret code at the automated teller machine, a party probably wouldn’t hurt you.

Now if I ever did go to a therapist , I’m sure he or she would say I probably have a social phobia because of some traumatic event. Or maybe I fear social rejection.

But honest, doc, I can’t say that I’ve had any emotionally scalding experience at parties in the past. At the few I’ve attended, I have vague recollections of chuckling or otherwise experiencing moments of enjoyment. The blowhard quotient has never gotten out of hand, and I’ve never been slugged by a drunk or fished out of the punch bowl so, absent the trauma, what the heck’s the matter with me?

By now, I’m so used to not going to parties that I hadn’t given it much thought until a colleague recently said, “You’re developing a reputation as the most antisocial person in the office.”

I took it as a compliment, but I guess he didn’t mean it that way. I had to admit, though, that it had a nice ring to it.

It might surprise my colleague, but I even threw a party once. It was about 12 years ago, and I decided to have a rock ‘n’ roll oldies bash. Honest to God, many people said it was the best party they’d ever attended. Some of us boys did a medley of hits by the Supremes, and later on, about 15 revelers were doing the “Loco-motion” from room to room in the house.

The party also left me with one of my favorite all-time lines. Two friends were dancing, and the guy was working up quite a sweat. Mindful of the fact that it was mid-January and only about 30 degrees outside, his dance partner said, “You must really sweat like a pig in the summertime.”

His reply: “Keep whispering those sweet nothings in my ear.”

While I don’t mind not going to the parties, what is bothersome is having to say no. I don’t make up excuses, although it’s probably better to do that than just come out and say you don’t want to go.

If you say your aunt is in town, the inviter says, “OK, maybe next time.”

But if you say, “I just don’t feel like coming to your party. . . .” Well, you know how thin-skinned some people can get.

Eventually, of course, your reputation catches up with you. Mine is so bad now that friends have taken to saying things like, “We’re having a party on the 14th but, don’t worry, we’re not going to invite you.”

“Oh, thank you,” I reply. I almost feel compelled to throw in, “Even if you had invited me, I wouldn’t have been able to make it.”

Perhaps me doth go on too long. It is a little puzzling why I’d rather stay home and watch “Casablanca” for the 10th time instead of going to a party, but who knows, maybe it’s not all that unusual.

Maybe I’m just a nester.

Or, maybe my friends are right and I do need therapy.

But who wants to pay $60 an hour to hear a shrink say: “Mr. Parsons, take comfort. I’ve identified your condition: You’re a reclusive oddball.”