My Post-COVID Social Etiquette Demands
One day, we will freely roam about the cabin that is the outside world. We’ll have dinner parties, cocktail parties, Oscars watch parties, and parties to simply brag about our accomplishments in the hopes (hope?) that our friends and families will be a little jealous of us! When that time comes, I will no longer settle for what I deem unacceptable behavior in social settings. I will be entering this Brave New World with higher standards. Here are my very reasonable list of demands:
I will overshare and expect you to comment, maybe even retort with your own too-intimate information. But please DO NOT ASK me any personal questions, especially about “work” or “how I’m doing.”
It’ll be deeply embarrassing for me if you and you’ll spend the rest of your life waiting for me to return eye contact. And I never will. Just let me overshare about one topic of my choosing and let the rest of my personhood remain a mystery.
Every party from here on out will have a fun, non-alcoholic drink option. Two options would be above and beyond but very appreciated.
I want my juice as God intended: untouched by grain. Beverages are an amazing opportunity for me to temporarily pretend I’m in a different social class. The energy I radiate when I’m holding a beverage. Unstoppable. Has a treadmill. Grocery shops at Whole Foods. Buys six dollar gum. Buys gum at all.
Don’t take that away from me with your fermented corn.
Drink glasses must be cute or, at the very least, quirky.
Bonus points if said glass or mug is thrifted.
Don’t judge me (or anyone, actually) if I allegedly steal a cute glass from a medium to large food chain’s establishment.
It’s all tied up in how I dealt with my parents’ divorce but besides that, the drink was probably overpriced and now you can use it when you come visit my home for some chess or cathartic screaming. This counts as thrifting.
Dance-offs shall be normalized.
Lock eyes with someone who looks like they’ll crumple under pressure. That’s your opponent. Carry a fake, or real, crown to bestow upon yourself when you put every alt-boy in their place. Take a bow.
I think it would be nice if the government gave us a weekly allowance.
This is social setting behavior because in my mind, this allowance would be used for new outfits or fun dish-ware for when it’s your turn to host the dinner party. I suppose if you lack imagination, you could use the money for rent or groceries.
Speaking of dinner parties, only invite me to those.
For once, I’d like to not eat a meal in five minutes flat. And to eat while bantering and wearing mascara? Divine. I feel liberated dining with someone, laughing and gossiping in front of our labors of love.
I’m sorry but can “improv parties” be a thing? I insist that they be.
Improv classes are a thing and they are prohibitively costly, even for someone who doesn’t have my broken brain relationship toward money (not enough time to dive into that, brother!). I guess this sort of goes against the previous request, but perhaps we could combine the ideas. Dinner party with a little improv for dessert. I guess that may be what a murder mystery party is. I just want to be silly!
Be mindful of the fact that everyone, everyone, is going to be weird as hell after this.
I’m going to ask you for every detail about your first kiss and then follow up that inquiry with every disease you have and/or think you have. You have to accept me and applaud me.
Stand Up!
One time I read that sitting longer than thirty minutes at a time essentially guaranteed you a future heart disease. Unfortunately this knowledge has poisoned my bird brain. Why aren’t we talking about this! All those lectures I sat, stirring in my seat as the clock left the 30 minute mark behind. We will be standing up and stretching our freaking legs after COVID! Get those steps in. Remember every thirty minutes that you have knees that propel you vertically. Bodies are haunting!
Silence: let’s make that noise cool
When I inevitably run out of energy to form sentences, I’d like to peacefully bask in my voluntary vow of silence. On second thought, small talk is infuriating, so maybe I’ll just keep my lips tightly wound for the whole night. I can’t do the small talk. I think it has to do with something about my astrological chart. Consult the stars, babe.
Let me cancel and not feel bad
No, not THAT cancel. I just actually changed my mind about all of this. Wanting to be invited to the party, I forgot that I don’t actually want to go to the party. You can find me in my bed with fuzzy socks and a book of essays by a woman twice my age. Now that’s amore!
