This morning I tallied up my organizational exploits as a party planner:
Let’s round to 60 for simplicity’s sake. Five dozen attempts to entertain, train, and/or celebrate.
I mused as to whether this part of my life offers some sort of advance inoculation against my minimal role in any matrimonial celebrations my sons may someday have. I will be so profoundly pooped by previous parties that I will gladly hand over the decision-making to their partners and their parents.
Wednesday night as I surveyed the retirement bash spread over the balcony across from the University chapel I caught myself thinking what a wonderful setting it would make for a wedding reception. Then I stopped myself. My parents didn’t get to choose the setting of either my or my brother’s reception. Why did I think I would ever be able to sway my sons’ decisions? I won’t.
So, I exercise my sense of tradition, aesthetic, etc. over the parties I plan for myself. Perhaps this is some sort of feminist power grab. Unlike previous generations of women who had to express themselves through their daughters’ weddings or their husbands’ business bashes (watch the Mad Men depiction of that particular torment), I lay claim to the privilege of planning my own parties.