Party Guest in a Decade

And a Souvenir of Sorts

So, somehow, a decade or so went by without me attending a party of any kind. At first, it seemed like no one I knew was celebrating any occasion. On another thought, I think I just started getting used to the nonchalance I grew up with regarding outings. If we ever went to any, it would almost only be because the host was a very close person and our absence would seem off. And even then, we had this rather odd arrangement where we'd go a bit later than the set time, spend one (at most, two) hours, make sure the celebrant saw us, and slip out the back door. Many times, we'd travel long distances and end up not eating or drinking what was served at the party because we needed to leave as soon as possible. Weird, right?

Anyway, I didn't see the point of going at all if we won't even enjoy the occasion properly. And that was how I ended up not going to any party for about a decade. But when I came home for the holidays and my mother told me that a friend's daughter was getting married, I decided to tag along (even though I told her I was only going for the food). I could hardly remember what a party even looked like again.

I'd have you know, though, that the first thing that threw me off a bit on the day was the "African time" delay of about two and a half hours. Even though I'd heard people's experiences with it, it was rather baffling to experience it firsthand. We got some inside information, though, so we arrived just in time. Now, I'm guessing I'm supposed to narrate this in a positive light, but I can't help but show the hand I was dealt. Duh.

I like to think one of the things that made me feel bored was that I didn't have company with me (my mom was the wholesome one who paid enough attention to the ceremony processions). Even if I wanted to, the noise was just on another level. I kept wondering if people really had to hit such high decibels just to express themselves.

Days later, it just kept coming back to me that the funny thing about experiencing something you haven't done in a long time is that you might not come away wanting more of it. Sometimes, you come away knowing yourself a little better—or, should I say, confirming what you already knew about yourself.

For the longest time, I've been aware that some things that seem perfectly ordinary to other people don't always feel that way to me. At some point, I even had to question whether I was simply trying to be different. But that wasn't the case. Whenever I tried to do things the way most people did them, I didn't feel as content as I thought I should.

The irony of this is that the same people who tell you to be yourself and do whatever you want can sometimes be the same ones to resist you when it's time for you to make those choices. This is especially true with situations surrounded by tradition, family expectations, and social norms. And because you still care deeply about these people, you start feeling guilty, pressured, or obligated to the people and systems that raised you.

Then, the question of how far individuality and autonomy can extend in a person's life comes in. Because if the permission we need to live our lives as we deem fit is in our hands, at what point does this permission start to look like rebellion? Why is it that even when a choice is deeply personal and simply doesn't conform to the norm, it can be perceived as aggressively unconventional? Preferences just become complicated when other people have expectations attached to them.

In the times I've preferred not to participate in social events or to quietly mark certain achievements without making a statement about them, it has almost always been met with side-eyes and unending questions. It's like I'm expected to have a 17-point explanation for the validity of my preferences when I say, "No reason."

Apparently, there is an assumption that if everyone else seems to enjoy something, you should eventually learn to enjoy it too. But sometimes, exposure does the opposite. Sometimes, experiencing what other people love is exactly how you discover what isn't for you.

So, I wonder what mature individuality really is. Maybe it is less about accumulating opinions about how everybody else should live and more about becoming increasingly honest about how you want to live. And the gentler way of doing this, I've realized, is to quietly choose differently. There's indeed something beautiful about not needing your difference to become an identity.

But maybe, after all, we are still waiting for someone—parents, friends, culture, or the people around us—to give us permission that was ours all along. Permission to want less. To want more. To do things differently. To disappoint someone's expectations—not cruelly or carelessly, but simply because their expectations aren't necessarily our instructions. And what greater freedom might we experience when we give other people that same room?

Anyway, that was how I went to a party for the first time in about a decade. In the process, I spent an unreasonable amount of time on my phone than I normally would, while secretly hoping they'd serve the food already (this is the part where you read and don't judge) which happened coincidentally, at almost the exact time I decided I'd had enough and was heading home. And I came home with a souvenir of sorts—fairly certain that I am still very fond of quiet. And I'd like to stay in that space for as long as I want to and can afford to.

P.S.: I have no idea why, after undertaking the bold feat of shamelessly taking a bunch of selfies at the party, I suddenly become bashful about sharing the photo dump.