Don't Surround Yourself with Yourself

I check on the carrots. My improvised recipie seems to be working out, or at least isn't a total failure just yet. I rarely put this much effort into eating vegetables, but it's my friend's Pot Luck Birthday dinner and she wanted vegetarian. I go back to my room to change: a nice, ruffled skirt and slightly heeled boots. The stylish, yet casual kind that leave only my knees revealed above their frumpy, layered tops. I wouldn't have been interested in boots like this a year ago, but there's something about them that's grown on me. I return to the kitchen to finish up the card, and finally transfer the carrots to a piece of tupperware.

Arriving at the party- a small gathering of a dozen or so women in my other friend's appartment- a surprisingly thoughtful guest offers to take my purse and jacket. I pour myself some wine, wish my friend a happy birthday, and then take my pick of small conversation circles. Visitors introduce themselves. People discuss the food they brought and where the recipies come from. A friend of mine sagely informs me that, apparently, you can't go wrong with lemon in a group full of women. The warm, ambient jazz music gives the evening a very classic feel as the conversations start to shift over to work. Several of my friends have snazzy UN and NGO internships and it's always interesting to hear about what they've been up to, especially with many large conferences coming up. I can't say anything too impressive, or even remotely similar, about my own work at the moment, and I start wonder if I'm missing out on this entire second life that they seem to have developed. The conversation takes a lighter turn towards office gossip, and I am again struck by how easily my friends seem to have integrated themselves into these novel social networks dominated by the 25-35 crowd. One girl even got hit on by a diplomat.

The clink of the hostess's glass pulls our attention towards the buffet, and we meander over in cliques to get our food. Before eating, the hostess toasts the Birthday Girl, who inturn makes a surprisingly refelctive toast as she thanks us all for coming. Another toast is proposed to the friend who prepared the main course, though she quickly brushes off the attention as we all turn our attentions to our plates. At the end of the meal, more surprisingly helpful guests offer to help the hostess with the dishes while others lay out dessert. We sing happy birthday. In a rush to get a drink of water I temporarily forget that you can't chug champagne, and the burn sends a slight shiver down my spine. After the cake is done we sit around for awhile and chat until the first small group has to leave, starting the inevitable domino effect of goodbyes. It's about nine o'clock. I thank the hostess and tell her I had a nice time. Which I did, though this might have surprised me a year ago. Two of my friends go back to another's appartment for a night cap while I head out alone to pick something up that I had been meaning to print.

I feel old.

The air is pleasantly brisk for Geneva. As a tram speeds by me, the city seems more dynamic and exciting than it usually would, especially on a Sunday evening. As if the night had something in store for me that I had not yet witnessed and could not possibly imagine. And for a brief second I am not walking in the city, but I am the city. A respectable, invisible figure in the background just going about their daily business. Walking quickly and determindly, slightly hunched over, and clutching a large bag.