Reactionary Exclusionism
Jesse Browner discusses invitation anxiety, in that sometimes invitations to parties, while initially welcome, become, over time, unwanted:
You may start out feeling pretty good about yourself, but that won't last unless you're a fool. Instead, you often begin to question the value of inclusion. Am I worthy of being included? Is this company beneath me? Any initial sense of self-satisfaction at being included becomes adulterated with an unstable admixture of guilt, self-doubt and disdain for one's fellow participants. That, in turn, will probably give rise to self-loathing, resentment of those you rightly suspect of sneering at your participation and, ultimately, reactionary exclusionism. Not long ago, the novelist Jonathan Franzen did a perfect re-enactment of this phenomenon when he responded with confusion, contrariness and bile to an invitation to appear on Oprah Winfrey's television show -- an invitation a true outsider would have jumped at. We have just as many synonyms for snob as we do for killjoy.
I have friends who want to be invited to things, but can't figure out how to get invited. It's an art, of course, an art that involves reducing the amount of choices on the part of the person holding the party to one choice: invitation. Creating a situation in which it is uncomfortable for someone not to do something is difficult. Like how my ex (before she was my girlfriend) once made it nearly impossible for me to not put my arm around her. I tried a similar technique last night, in which I tried to make it uncomfortable for a girl not to let me put my arm around her. Not knowing how (coupled with a cuddle-block on the part of a well-meaning but evidently clueless friend) proved insurmountable obstacles. Point is, for a lot of things, you can't just invite yourself, but you can create the circumstances in which that is the only option. It would be a mistake to say that I know how to do this, however.
I was anything but a misfit. I strove tirelessly, if vainly, to attain a sense of belonging. I cultivated a gift for making friends and never lacked for invitations to country weekends, but I was always lonely in company because I was forever on my guard against being denounced. No one ever outed me, of course, because the harsh searchlight of paranoia makes people (including oneself) appear flatter, more one-dimensional, than they really are. With hindsight, it is clear to me that most of my friends were perfectly decent people who had never scorned me as an insecure wannabe, but to this very day it is difficult for me to believe anyone likes me as much as he claims or feigns.
As for myself, I never really liked the party scene. Not the high-class gathering of socialites, mind you (not being a high-class socialite tends to work against invitations to such gatherings), but the alcohol-fueled gatherings of friends and friends of friends (as well as their friends). Last night being an exception, I usually just find a spot on the couch with a beer and sit there, waiting for something to happen. Usually the only thing that happens is that I finish drinking my beer and get up to get another one.
The last part of the last sentence quoted (“to this very day it is difficult for me to believe anyone likes me as much as he claims or feigns”) rings true for me. I judge how much people like me based on how they are when they hang out with me, not by how many times they say I'm a cool guy or whatever. That they're hanging out with me in the first place is my first positive indicator.
