I didn’t start throwing dinner parties until I was nearly 40. Too much work, too difficult to coordinate all those dishes, plus who was going to take care of the kids while I shopped and cooked and cleaned and uncorked the wine and lit the candles and changed into a comfortable-yet-cleavage-baring dress and led the sparkling conversation?
And then, on our tenth wedding anniversary, I asked my husband what he’d change about me if he could, and he said he’d like it if I was able to give a nice dinner party. And so I learned. In fact, I got really good at it. Moving to the suburbs, living in a house with a real dining room, having more time on Saturday once our kids got older, we came to really enjoy dinner parties — giving as well as getting.
But now I think it’s time to stop. I’m tired. Plus, they all start to feel the same. Now that I’m acting younger, I’m going to start inviting my friends over to share a keg and a bag of potato chips — if they’re really lucky, a pot of chili — on Saturday nights.
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