the new come-as-you-are party
/“Why don’t you come over right now,” I say to my neighbor, usually good for a cup of tea on the distancing deck.
“You mean RIGHT NOW, right now, not tomorrow or Friday.
“Yeah, right now.
“Oh, hmm, well, maybe, huh, really, right now?”
Yes, right now this minute, I tell her. It’s warm enough and sunny enough and not windy enough and maybe there’s enough time before the next Zoom. Last minute could work.
“Besides,” I say, “I need you. Since the cold weather arrived, I haven’t seen real flesh in weeks.”
Do you remember come-as-you-are, or right now parties? Me neither. Sure, lots of people talked about them -- maybe the cool kids or the not-so-cool-kids -- but no one actually had them, did they?
It was a thing I heard about. People calling you up at the last minute -- back when you had a phone on the wall -- and announcing there’s a party right now and you’re not allowed to change clothes or put on shoes or take out your retainer.
You get in the car (or force your parents to drive you) and come as you absolutely, truthfully, unapologetically are. No flossing, no brushing, no powdering, no primping.
I would imagine a group of comatose kids in hair rollers and flannel pajamas, a wave of intimidated zombies, everyone smelly.
I feared those parties. When the phone rang on weekends, I worried somebody would force me out of the house without skintight jeans.
I send my neighbor another text.
“So, you’re coming?”
“Well, I don’t know, it is last minute.”
“That’s the whole point,” I say. “There’s nothing for you to do, nothing for you to bring, nothing for you to change or add or subtract or plan. Just pick up your butt and come over.”
“It’s so sudden.”
“We’re not talking about a marriage proposal or a job offer. I know what you look like on good days. I promise I’ll keep that image in my head.”
So often, during Covid, I’ve wanted to invite people over last minute outside, when there was soup on the stove or a newly cut pineapple in the fridge.
But last minute -- for V.I.P. adults -- is considered rude, inconsiderate, an afterthought. If you really wanted to see me, someone might think, why didn’t you let me know earlier. I have a very busy schedule you know.
Yes, I know.
But this is no ordinary time.
“I’d love to ask Joe and Beth to come over,” I said to my husband when another couple cancelled plans on our deck. “I would have invited them too, but you know the distancing rules these days.”
“Nah, can’t do it,” said my husband. “They’ll think you really didn’t want them.”
But isn’t right now, last minute, the only way right now. As the Mandalorian, in his full-time mask, says in the hit Star Wars spin off: “This is the way.”
This is the way when the weather is king of the distancing show. This is the way when we don’t know until last minute if someone has a cough or a sniffle. This is the way when someone thinks they may have been exposed. This is the way when a son or daughter, a sister or mother, during this strange time, suddenly needs us.
Whenever the wind is low, the sun is high -- whenever the call to connect is great and there’s a window of opportunity as this bright new year begins -- come as you are.
Don’t even brush. We don’t care. We’re too packed into our masks and down coats, too far apart, too thrilled to be out of the house, too thrilled this crummy year is over.
And for you zombies, there are always blankets to cover up those silly flannel pajamas. Maybe the ones with Yoda and Skywalker?
This is the way.