I believe the worst thing to happen to a person is to receive an invitation. I believe this with the dastardly confidence of a deserter, and I believe this wholeheartedly. People who invite other people to things such as weddings or celebrations or galas do not care about the people they are inviting, about their health, their finances, and the distinct trajectory of their days. “Whatever it is that you must be doing in your own time and in your own days, stop all of it all at once and witness us, witness me.” In contrast, the invitation for a casual evening or a breakfast on the weekend does not carry this presumption. It is respectful, more often than not, of the general business of our lives. It allows for the little delays. “Will you have time this evening?” We ask. “If not, we could always meet tomorrow.” But this is not the case with these larger-than-life celebrations, where people like me feel burdened under the most infinitesimal obligations. From the coordinated outfits and themes to follow to the choreographed performances to the general artificialness of it all, nothing portrays the redundant pretence in human beings more than the modern event, the contemporary celebration. I believe there will be a point—in a future that does not seem so far anymore—when I will receive an invitation and instantaneously decline, citing reasons that are absurd in their honesty. I may choose to say, “I am awfully sorry, no, but I am doing nothing that day, and it is crucial I do not indulge in activity” or, perhaps, “I understand you are going to be merry; I have no such intention for no rhyme or reason. I choose the contentment of my everyday afternoon instead.” And I believe if I do this enough, at some point, the invitations will stop. I hope they do. I do not see another way out of this game everyone plays on the regular. It is strange to me. It has never made sense to me. I believe I shall learn to own this oddity instead of playing pretend with the others.