Receptions. Parties. Galas. Soirees: I hate them all. Going to a social event where I have to spend hours making small talk and watching strangers get drunk is not my idea of a good time. I can say without hesitation that at 55 I have never had a hard time refusing an invitation to a party or, once there, had a hard time leaving. I think it’s a safe bet that the words “Life of the Party” are unlikely to be inscribed on my tombstone.
Over the years, fewer and fewer invitations have found their way into my mailbox, which is just fine with me, since it saves me the exertion of having to manufacture an excuse to decline: (“Saturday the 6th? I’m so sorry, that’s my night to mulch.”)
But every now and then something piques my interest. This happened just last Friday when my partner brought in the mail and gave me a quizzical look. “Why is the funeral home writing you?” he asked.
“The funeral home?” I repeated, and he nodded. “Probably selling pre-need packages,” I said dismissively; since I turned 55 I get lots of those offers. “Toss it.”
“It doesn’t look like a marketing letter,” he said, handing me an envelope which did look awfully festive for a funeral home. I glanced at the return address and saw it was the facility that handled the `final arrangements for both of my parents, several relatives and the parents of many friends.
I opened the envelope, removed a letter written on paper festooned with red poinsettias, and as I read my jaw dropped. My partner rushed over and, wordless, I handed him the letter; his jaw dropped too. “What the fuck?” he said.
I found my voice. “It’s a Christmas party,” I said flatly “They’re inviting me to a Christmas Party. At the Crematorium.”
He reread the invitation. “Don’t exaggerate,” he said. “It’s a ‘remembrance,” not a party. And it’s not just a crematorium.” He giggled. “It’s also a funeral home.”
First I`was perplexed: a “remembrance?” Did they want me to think of all the loved ones I won’t be spending Christmas with? Then I was annoyed: some very sad moments took place in that building, and it was certainly not the first place I would think of to meet some friends and have a jolly holiday cocktail. “Is this for real?” I demanded. “Are they serious?”
He nodded. “I think they are.” He reread the invitation. “It says there will be refreshments,” he said. “What do you serve for a party at the morgue?”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Cold cuts,” I said and paused. “And I don’t even want to know where they’re going to keep the shrimp until it’s time to serve,” I said, shuddering slightly.
My partner laughed. “Well it’s also a crematorium,” he pointed out. “Maybe they’ll serve coal fired pizza. Think how fast it would cook.”
“What’s for dessert? I asked, laughing, “Baked Alaska?”
“S’mores,” he said and we both roared.
With difficulty we composed ourselves. “Really,” I said, “this is in powerful poor taste. What were they thinking?”
“Maybe they figured that for once you WILL be the life of the party,” he said. I glared at him.
“Maybe they’re going to get everyone drunk and sell pre-need packages?” he said hastily.
“Are they targeting the holiday impulse shopper who wishes they were dead?” I asked; I could certainly identify with that sentiment. Then another thought hit me. “What do you wear to a party at the morgue? Basic black?”
“Something with a slit,” he said; “right up the back!”
“Shoes and underwear optional!” I added, and now we were laughing so hard we were crying.
After we composed ourselves I took the invitation and headed for the wastebasket but he stopped me. “I think you should go,” he said. “You have to.”
I shook my head. “Not a ghost of a chance,” I said.