Cocktail Party Jews

I’ve always been a shy person. It may be my greatest shortcoming. In college, I was often told that I came off as a bit of a snob, when I failed to make eye contact or introduce myself. You can’t imagine what going to a party is like for me, or starting a new job, or even attending gatherings with my family.

My brother and I were all but joined at the hip, attending a cousin’s wedding in 2005; we hardly even spoke to our own relatives. At another wedding in 2006—a wedding in Istanbul, no less—I managed to avoid speaking with anyone to whom I was not related. I spent most of that week-long party having private conversations with my date. It’s pretty sad, really. I think I’m just lacking the schmooze gene—you know, the one that would give me the courage to introduce myself to strangers—perhaps even enjoy their company.

Lately, I’ve been thinking that my problem is compounded by the fact that for the last five years, I’ve been in a string of committed relationships (not that I’m complaining about that!) so I can hardly even remember a time when I might have invoked that age-old fall-back strategy: when isolated, find someone to flirt with. As if I could ever work up the nerve.

Given those deficiencies, there’s no environment I hate worse than a cocktail party. Here’s a situation where you’re expected to schmooze with lots and lots of strangers while discovering shared interests and bonding, as you eat tiny bits of food speared with toothpicks. You don’t have a plate to bury your face in; you don’t have a chair to sit in when your legs get tired. And worst of all, you don’t have people sitting on either side of you (as there would be, at a dinner party)—two people who, at least for a moment or two, might feel obligated to speak to you.

Instead, you’re expected to find a person or two with whom you can create a circle of conversation, a delicate structure that will probably flutter apart when the waiter comes by with the next tray of delicious stuffed mushrooms.