Christmas Party Performance Anxiety

Barbara: I bet almost all of you know what I mean by this, right? I can’t count how many people I’ve spoken to over the years who admit to suffering from some form of it. People that would surprise you. You know, super-outgoing people, easily conversant people. Yes, people like me.

Why me, you ask? Why would I worry about Christmas party banter when I usually­­––and so obviously––have a great time at get-togethers?

I have almost never met someone I HAVEN’T liked at a party (and if I don’t like them, usually it’s because they’re rude or mean-spirited). I LOVE meeting new people, or catching up with people I like but who I don’t keep in touch with, or, best of all, seeing dear dear friends who I haven’t seen in ages.

And there is absolutely nothing like a good ‘ol Christmas party to give ample opportunity to enjoy all of the above.

And yet, before I go to parties (particularly larger, casual ones), I succumb to the usual performance anxiety. What if I can’t think of anything to talk about? What if I can’t find anyone to talk to? What if everyone just stares at me blankly as I struggle with awkward silences and banal patter? And with my husband traveling a lot, I often go to these parties on my own—so no “safety net”.

Then I realized that these concerns are mere hiccups in my insecurity blanket. There is one foible that trumps all the others. I realized yesterday that it’s not the actual talking to people that I fear, or even the not-knowing-what–to-say thing. I am (as I said) an outgoing and chatty reveller. But I am a notorious question-asker. I truly love hearing about your life. Which is great if your questions are meaningful, apropos (ie, you haven’t forgotten major personal information, like a parent’s death (!), a recent illness, or a child’s accomplishment), and personal but not too personal.

I ask stupid questions all the time. I am embarrassed to say the forgetting of deaths and illness has trumped me from time to time. Or someone will tell me a personal tidbit and, in my rush to ask my next question, I miss a key detail that they’ve JUST told me: 
Them: I’ve been really busy working on my next novel.

Me: Oh, that’s wonderful! Is it fiction or non-fiction?

Pause. Awkward pause.

Them: Um, aren’t all novels fiction?  

Yes. Yes, they are. Oops.

But stupid questions aside (strangely, I’m okay with those; they’re like my signature or something), the real trouble-spot for me is in the “personal but not too personal” department.

Did you notice that one on my list? I discovered that this is the very crux of my performance anxiety. Before I head into that next festive and delightful party, I am worried that I will somehow bruise you with my questions. That I will infringe. Or extricate. Or impinge. It worries me. Lots of people are way more private than I am, so I don’t have the same barometer for where that line might be.

So, I’m begging you: help me, please! Please tell me what I can ask you at the next party … and what I can’t.

Deb: Barb, the mere thought that you do not see yourself as this shiny sweet guest is killing me! I love your questions. Bring them on. More people should ask rather than tell. It’s always lovely to see that someone is genuinely interested. But if I must, here are some guidelines.

DO

- How are you spending the holidays?

- Are you hosting or being hosted?

- Did you do all your shopping yet?

- Cold enough for you?

- What are your Christmas traditions?

- Do you do turkey, goose, or tofurky?

DON’T

-       Help me out here. I know someone in your family recently died, but I don’t remember who? Parent? Dog?

-       Oh, go ahead, have another cheese puff. You’ll lose that extra weight you’re packing in the New Year!

-       I saw your husband Doug at the Marriott. He was going up the elevator and I didn’t get a chance to say hi before the doors closed. Did you guys have a little romantic getaway? ... Oh ... sorry ... I … you know, now that I think of it, maybe it wasn’t Doug. (big gulp of wine)

-       Wow, Joanne, (loud voice) GREAT FACELIFT!