Standing in the checkout line at Henry's, to buy: a bottle of wine, some mushrooms and a bag of peanuts.
In front of me, the woman unloads a similar mix of goods: a bottle of liquor (didn't catch the label), ten limes, a fistful of mint, a bag of veggies.
"Are you making mohitos?" the cashier asks her."Cucumber martinis."
"Sounds good."
"It is."
Time to butt in. "Can I come to your party?" I say.
"Sure! I'll tell my friends I'm making my friends now at the corner store."
"Perfect! 'Cause I really might show up!"
"5555 Mississippi."
Gained: an invitation to drink cucumber martinis in the most shameless self-invitation maneuver I've ever pulled. Sure, there were sleepovers in junior high and random dinner outings in college when I tagged along or blatantly but silently channeled "invite meeeee!" But nothing like this.
Perhaps it comes with age. The assumed right to rudely butt in and speak your mind, that is.
Either you stop caring what people think, or you start meekly, giving an opinion here, a verdict there, and realize that people don't care what you think. Or maybe it's nothing as ennobling, as liberating, and you do just it because people allow (or expect?) you to.
Right now I'm far from shy, but there's still a filter between my brain and mouth. I so look forward to the day when I'm old and wrinkled enough that I can speak the god awful truth. People may hate me for it, but they'll never turn me away or stop inviting me over for Christmas, because that would be heartless!Or, I could start speaking my mind from now, so that I'm never bitter and repressed enough I need to take it out on the young'uns.
Any votes?
(In case you're wondering, I ended up going to a different party. The same group of friends from last night, the Italian contingent, was eating caramelized onion pizza and watching Sarah Palin on SNL. Couldn't miss that.)
