Mortified.

Last night, I trekked to far north Dallas to attend a cocktail party hosted by one of my colleagues and his wife. In recent years, I have become somewhat shy about attending such functions, probably because I don't feel as confident regarding my appearance as I once did. So even though I very much like this colleague and his wife and was interested in meeting their friends and seeing where they live, it took every ounce of moral fiber in my body to resolve to go, prepare to go and push myself out the door to this event.

By the time I reached their neighborhood, I was grooving to an 80's music mix on the radio. One song in particular ("Boom, boom, let's go back to my room," a definitely underrated musical achievement of the 80's) warmed my heart, as it brought back fond memories of the time when my high school boyfriend and I won a dance contest at the lake where my Dad lived while whirling around to that tune and others. I began to feel more "partyish" and by the time I reached my colleague's neighborhood, I was happy to be there and looking forward to joining the party.

So you can imagine my surprise when I reached his beautifully decorated, holiday-lighted home and saw not a single car parked out in front. I drove by slowly, but saw no people mingling inside with cocktails as expected. I saw another car pull up to the curb, but its passengers bore the same puzzled expression I had and they quickly moved along. Sure, I was "fashionably late," but not that late, I thought, "The party can't be over yet, can it?"

I called my friend Sandy to see what etiquette dictated that I do, and to find out if she had any bright ideas about what may have occurred. Thinking there may have been such a small turnout that my friends went out to a bar instead of hanging at the house, she suggested I call my friend's home and cell phone numbers. I did, receiving no answer at either, and left a message on his cell phone explaining that I was in the neighborhood, after running late from a dinner, but was hoping to pop in at the house or catch up with them if they had gone out for drinks.

Heeding her request for an update because she was curious about this conundrum, I dialed Sandy's number again. She asked, "What exactly does the invitation say?" So I read her the part about joining them for cocktails on "December 3 exclamation mark" (3!) Sandy queried, "Is it possible that is a number one, meaning December 31?" And then it all became clear, my face reddening at the mere thought of having appeared 28 days early for a cocktail party. I began to imagine all the jokes at work and my inability to ever live down this perception among my colleagues that I am flighty and not altogether bright. I began pondering whether I could pay off this colleague not to disclose my silly mistake. I began wondering if I could super-speed my departure from private practice to do civil rights work.

"Ah," I thought, "yet another chapter has been added to the book of "My Embarrassing Life Experiences," one that many, many people will enjoy reading before all is said and done." I drove home with significantly less grooving to the radio.

Postscript: Later in the evening, I received a call back from my colleague. Rather than ridiculing me, he sounded very nice and was apologetic for the mixup, as he knew my drive to his house is a fairly long one and he felt bad that I had made it for no reason. Apparently, I wasn't the only person who read the invitation that way, as someone else had sent their regrets earlier in the week about not being able to make it on Saturday night, but he said it had not sunk in for him until receiving my message that people actually thought the invitation was for a party this weekend. I explained how my mortification had been compounded by the fact that I realized he would probably think after hearing the voice mail I left that I had simply been in his neighborhood and was stopping by spontaneously for an uninvited visit. We laughed about the situation and he promised not to tell anyone from work, with no payoff necessary, so all is well that ends well.