Does "Evening Wear" Mean Pajamas?

By some strange twist of fate--perhaps Jupiter aligned with Mars or the moon was in the seventh house--I found myself in a swanky leather-chaired room this evening surrounded by local celebrities, the wealthy and those who bite at their heels hoping for a piece of their action.

I have never felt so alone in my life.

I've always fancied myself the kind of person who can talk to anyone. From salespeople to Shakespeare scholars, I've always been able to have conversations with anyone. I assumed that, when the occasion arose, I'd be able to hold my own in a room full of society's elite. They're just like me, I always thought. They put their pants on one leg at a time.

What I didn't realize was that, though those folks do put their pants on one leg at a time, they have someone to hold their pants while they step into them. Me, I flounder all over the room, catching my toes on the cuff and falling on my face.

I didn't do so hot working the room tonight either. I just kept tripping and falling--until I ran into Earl U., an usher at the ballpark who helped staff the event I attended. He introduced me to his wife, Nancy, who opened the door to the room to let guests into the party. Then I met three women who were in charge of "non-baseball events" at the ballpark, and they talked to me for a while. I made small talk with the waitress, who said that with my white zinfandel I fit right in with the rest of the crowd.

No matter where I looked, my eyes drowned in a sea of the well-dressed elite. People who had tickets to the All-Star Game, who's kids, Biff and Buffy, were flying in from the cape to join them in their VIP seats. They chatted easily with one another, looked completely comfortable in their trendy haircuts and stiletto heels. Meanwhile, I was chugging my wine like it was a quarter draft of Milwaukee's Best and looking for a place to deposit the glass.

The highlight of the evening, though, was bumping into Kevin McClatchy--managing general partner of the Pittsburgh Pirates. He held out his hand and said, "Hi, I'm Kevin," as if I didn't know who he was. As if I don't blame him every day of my life for the crap team that's taking the field in Pittsburgh this season. To my credit, I was friendly and nice, replying, "Hello, Kevin. I'm Susie," and trying to explain my connection to the artist. He thanked me for attending and said how nice it was to meet me. I returned the pleasantries and he moved on.

And then I had one of those "how did my life come to this" kind of moments. How did I end up in a room with famous rich people? How come I migrated toward janitors, bartenders and door greeters instead of hobnobbing with the party guests? What, in the end, does this mean about my personality?

Here's what I think, which was hammered home after meeting McClatchy. These people are not my people. I can socialize with them, exchange pleasantries and make nice with them. I can even drink their wine and eat their cheese. But I will never be of them. I can't be serious about things like art and culture. Or, I can be...but I don't want to be. I missed laughing at jokes and talking to people who have real lives and real problems.

When my mom found out I was invited to this event, she said that if it required eveningwear I should go in my pajamas. I thought it was hilarious, but I doubt most of the people in attendance would have gotten the joke. Because they didn't seem like real people. But Earl and Nancy talked about the food at the park and what it's like to work there full time now that they're retired. The event planners joked about the bartender who flirts with all the girls. The waitress went out of her way to make me feel comfortable. These people? They're my people. I am of them. And I think I'm proud of it.

Nice to meet you, Mr. McClatchy. Now someone point me toward the usher. We were in the middle of an important conversation.