It’s not every day that she gets to go to a party. One where she gets to dress up. Be the best person she could be. And that’s the sole purpose. To utilize the night to show the best version of herself. Show the person she could be when given the opportunity. She wishes she was one of those who just drip in confidence. The ones that people watch at a distance and admire. She doesn’t have to be the prettiest or the most stylish but just the one that displays that inexplicable and looming presence in every room.
Like in those movies when the woman walks in. Unassuming. She walks through open doors and stops. Looks around the room. Taking it all in. Looking at nobody while everyone is looking at her. A presence that dominates. One who is worth paying attention to.
Call it vanity. Whatever. But she wants that. That presence. Where everyone just understands and knows. They don’t need to converse with one another. They don’t need to point anything out. They just know. She wants to stand out. She wants to be interesting. She just wants to be seen.
And she is determined to be seen at this party. Her clothes are laid out on the bed. Now, it’s not the most groundbreaking, fashion-forward outfit. Not like the ones you see on social media. But she gets excited when she sees it. It fits in all the right places. It hangs on her body as if it’s meant for her. Molded to skin. She feels comfortable and, dare she might say, even beautiful. It’s not every day she gets to feel pretty. To be the most beautiful version of herself. Forgive her for being opportunistic. Her makeup was perfect. She won’t lie. She had her look planned all week. Watched enough Youtube videos to know exactly how to do what she wants to do. It coincides with her outfit. A flash of gold with every blink. Her dark hair, accentuated with dark smoke. It only took her maybe 2 hours to get her face right. But it was worth it. She stands taller, her shoulders straighter.
She’s aware of how to present herself. She needs to talk but not too much where she’s talking over other people. She will smile but just enough to look happy and engaged. She will make the right jokes, get the room laughing then retreat. She will listen to her peers. Laugh at their jokes. Make them want her to be there. To be their friend. To be a person they need.
Not like she’s compensating for anything. She’s definitely not compensating for anything.
Ringing the doorbell, she peeks through the window. She takes a deep breath and takes in the sliver of the social gathering she can see. It’s not much. She hears the muffled chatters drowned out by the loud thumping of the speakers. She looks at them in admiration. How comfortable, how…unaware. For a moment, she wished for the bliss of ignorance, and then the door opened. And awareness sank in.
She smiles big at her peers. Just how she planned. A tame drink in one hand, gesticulations in the other. She sits at the edge of the couch, her posture straight and assuring. If there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s faking it. Someone talking about something that happened recently. She tries to focus. Truly, she is trying. But she can’t tell if the story is supposed to be funny or tragic. Perhaps, a little bit of both. She doesn’t want to listen to this. Not when she doesn’t know if she is supposed to laugh or empathize. But this person matters. What they think of her matters. What do they think of the clothes she pulled out – the ones that fit in all the right places; if her presence looms; if she is desirable. She doesn’t think she is being ridiculous. It’s the least she can get from this god-awful story. She decided to respond with a vague “oh my god.” That should suffice. On to the next.
She makes a joke. It lands. The people surrounding her laugh and she suddenly feels seen. Important and desired. She laughs along with them. One person adds to the joke, it gets another laugh. The group continues to add to the bit. Bouncing back and forth. And she remembers that she started that. That they are laughing and enjoying her being there with them. Enjoying her company. The conversation settles and they once again move on from her words. Now it’s her time to listen again. She settles herself deeper into the couch. Allows her the time to rejuvenate until the next one.
She makes another joke. But she’s not sure if they heard. Or maybe they did hear, and it just wasn’t worth responding to let alone laughing at. They just moved on with the conversation. No response…as if nothing was said. But something was said. By her. And it didn’t make a difference. She wishes she could say this was the first time. Where she expects to be heard and to receive no response for the people around her. Like it wouldn’t have mattered if she said something or not. It wouldn’t have mattered if she was even there or not. But she will continue to smile, listen, and sit straight. She will continue to find a way to throw those jokes in. The ones that make the room laugh. She’s not incredibly funny but she’s been capable before. And though the times come erratically, they do come. The times when she can impress and reel people in. How else would they be interested? How else will she be interesting?
It's only a matter of time before they see through the façade. The absolute desperation. What then? Everything she worked for will have to go to waste. There’s only so much she can control. Only a percentage of her she can show. To reel the others in. To make her presence worthy. What of the percentage she cannot control? And they will see her for what she actually is. Sad, isn’t it? That small percentage is what allows her the invite. The one where she utilizes every feature, she possibly can ensure another invite. But the percentage is not enough for her to stand out. She is enough to be there but not enough to be wanted there. She finds herself standing alone most of the time. She questions why she came in the first place. She amongst her friends – people she knows. She has people on either side, but she might as well have been looking through the window from the outside once again.
And everything seems to falter. That outfit that hangs off her body. That makeup she spent time perfecting. Her smiles. Her listening ears. All to maintain that presence. A simple presence that is desired and admired. She wishes she was that person to live like her peers. Unaware and unapologetic. But she sees them. She sees the twitches at the corners of their mouths before they burst out laughing. The rising pinks in their cheeks. The way they push back their hair every time the subject would change or the light drumming on their fingers on the cup they carry. How they purse their lips when they are itching to respond but they allow the other person to finish their statment. She sees how their body language relaxes and tenses. The way they smile when some people walk in. The way their eyes dart to the closest random object when the others follow. And somehow, she’s incapable of seeing how they see her. And it’s crippling…as if that’s the only thing that matters.