DON'T FEEL BAD

Have you ever been at the right place at the wrong time? Or—at the wrong place at the right time? Of course you have, and so have I.  If it’s any comfort, Shashi Tharoor, member of the India Parliament said, “We are where we are at the only time we have.”

Yesterday, I arrived at the apartment of friends who had invited me for cocktails before dinner. I rang the bell (twice) and no one answered. It was then that I realized that I’d have to drink alone. I returned to my apartment and checked the calendar. My hostess had cancelled the first date of our get-together, and we had agreed on a second date. Unfortunately, both dates were still on my calendar, and I had failed to erase the first one.

Years ago, when my husband was a graduate student at Purdue University, I was invited to an afternoon tea given by faculty wives.  It was a command performance. My friend, Annie invited me to accompany her to the brand new home of a recently arrived faculty member. Neither of us was familiar with the neighborhood, nor had we been foresighted enough to write down the exact address. I suggested we stop and call for directions, but ever-confident Annie assured me we’d arrive on time.

After driving around the subdivision for 30 minutes, I was elated when she finally pulled to the curb, pointed to a house with many cars parked in front, and said, “Here we are. We are only 20 minutes late. The door’s open, let’s sneak in and mingle.” Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I worked my way through the crowd to the refreshment table which presented a variety of tea sandwiches, pate, smoked salmon, cheeses, fruits and sweets. Filling my plate, and grabbing a glass of wine, I slid into a chair in an alcove. Happily, I could sit there eat, drink and wait quietly until Annie would come and tell me it was over and we could go home.

Furtively, I  glanced around the room and made eye contact with a woman sitting on a sofa, and she beckoned me to join her. Desperately wishing that Annie had told me which of these women was our hostess, I reluctantly walked over and sat down next to her. She greeted me with an effusive “It’s so nice to see you.” “It’s nice to see you too,” I responded. Then she asked, “Have you known Katherine for a long time?” “No, I can’t say I have,” was my truthful answer. At that moment a woman of substantive girth plopped down next to me on the other side of the sofa. I was trapped. “Marie” said my new friend, “Have you met—?”  “Oh, Yes,” I lied, “Marie and I had the pleasure earlier.”

At that, Annie hurried over and said, “Excuse Me.” She grabbed my arm, yanked me off the sofa and hissed in my ear, “We’ve got to get out of here. This is a bridal shower!” Annie got out of the door, and I almost made it when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I was face to face with our hostess, who smiled, and  said, “I am so glad you were able to come.” She was smiling, but—“Who the Hell are you?” hung in the air.

“Beautiful affair,” I mumbled. How could I explain that I had entered her home, eaten her food, drunk her wine (two glasses) and didn’t even bring a gift. In desperation I blurted out, “I had a nice visit with Marie.” Relieved at hearing a familiar name, she responded,”Doesn’t she look marvelous after her face lift?”  I honestly answered, “I hardly recognized her.” She gave me a hug before I left.

Oh, Yes, there’s more—Years later, my husband and I prepared for a large, fancy party at our home which was to be held the next day. The caterers had left and we ordered a pizza for dinner. The doorbell rang at 7 p.m. but instead of pizza, two of our extremely well dressed friends had arrived a day early. We invited them to stay for pizza. They did return the next day. He wore the same suit, but she had changed her dress. I  greeted them each with a slice of leftover pizza.

Conventions are often held in hotels. Meetings are held during the day and parties are thrown at night. It’s always fun to see colleagues that you haven’t seen for a very long time.  We looked forward to a big party sponsored by the American Psychological Association. Getting off the elevator we entered the packed room, grabbed some drinks in fancy glasses, and looked for a familiar face—or two or three, but there were none. It didn’t take long for my husband and I to realize that we had gotten off the elevator at the wrong floor. This was a Convention of Plumbers and Pipe- fitters. Realizing our mistake, we elbowed our way through the crowd, got back on the elevator and rode up a floor to the correct venue. The psychologists were just as boisterous as the plumbers and pipe-fitters, but they were drinking out of paper cups.

Esther Blumenfeld