Maybe some of you have wondered why I call myself the Urban Recluse. Well, here’s some evidence of my self-imposed social isolation. Right now I should be at my friend Ahmed’s birthday party, but instead I’m at home feeling rather guilty for not going out.

He invited me to his party last year, and I didn’t go. My excuse was that I was on my period. I wasn’t lying, but I could have gone if I’d really wanted to. So I felt obliged to go when I heard about this year’s party, but also reluctant to go as I’m an anti-social freak. I felt sure that I would be judged unfairly by his friends, and as I wouldn’t know any of them (except for maybe 2 people that I hadn’t seen in nearly 10 years) I felt rather reluctant to go.

Although Ahmed’s invitation was apparently marked RVSP, I didn’t confirm my attendance as I wanted to think it over. He sent a reminder text last week, then called me on Thursday to check whether I was going. I said yes, as there was no polite way to decline without sounding like a bitch.

Today I started preparing to go. I had a shower and started to sort out my hair. I had some dinner, and as is my custom when I’m eating alone, I read the thriller that I am currently reading. When I finished dinner I realised that I preferred the option of continuing my book rather than going out to a party to partake in small talk with strangers. Oh, and I forgot to mention the karaoke portion of the party!

A lot of people will wonder if I’m sane. Sometimes I wonder that too. Most people on the planet seem to enjoy getting together, meeting strangers, talking about whatever – I’d rather stay in with a book. I’m 26, not 96.

Now, if the party had been at a nightclub, I probably would have gone. I like to shake my booty.

Written by PJ | Posted in reading

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