Roller Skates to Pink Stilettos

The first birthday party I remember hosting was in third grade. It was a roller-skating party (yes, having been cool in the early 80’s, this type of function is probably cool again) and I wore a florescent pink and black sweatshirt and black leggings. Everything was set up before I got there. The invitations were sent out to all the girls in my class, the Carvel ice cream cake was ordered weeks in advance, and the music and lighting were certainly determined by the skating rink (and probably determined some of our newest favorite songs. Borderline, anyone?) My biggest worry that afternoon was falling down on my skates.

Friday evening I’m hosting the first party I’ve ever solely been responsible for. It’s here, at my very own apartment. And evidently I have no idea what I’m doing since I've started about twenty projects and have finished none of them - at the moment the living room rug is lifted up (because I had to sweep under it, although I got halfway there and realized this requires moving the furniture, so, more accurately, the rug is half-lifted up); about five random web pages are open on my desktop as a part of my search for appetizer recipes; boxes of 40, 75 and 100-watt light bulbs and various cleaning solutions are in a CVS bag in the corner because I’m convinced I need to change every light bulb in the apartment to create the perfect ambience as well as (yuck) scrub the bathroom floor; and every single “delicate” piece of laundry I own has been washed and hangs on my shower rod, bedroom entrance, the ladder that is in the middle of the kitchen (obviously, so I can change the lightbulbs), and anywhere else I can find to stick the laundry. And all the while I’m watching Law & Order CI out of one eye, thinking that the guy who’s currently being accused of murder on TV looks like my ex and, shit, even has the same name. I'm pretty sure that if he wasn’t an actor and, come to think of it, a fake accused murderer who cut out people’s calf muscles and ate the flesh of his victims, I would probably have a crush on him.

And around and around I go. Back to the party planning. Thank God I have a friend who’s in the “business” and who has volunteered to help me set up on Friday afternoon. At this age, I am worrying about “what if no one comes” (and its converse, what if too many people come and my tiny one-bedroom is woefully inadequate in space, seating or, worst of all, liquor supply), what I'm going to wear (although I could probably recycle the black leggings), from where to order a birthday cake, what else to serve, how to set up the space... and I haven't even thought about the music. After all of this worrying, come Friday night, chances are I’ll drink myself into such a stupor that I’ll have forgotten to worry about what I did twenty years ago (with just a minor change in the footwear): falling down, this time in my pink stiletto heels.