Twas the Friday before Christmas and I was at a cute holiday party/networking event. The kind
My eyeballs hit the ceiling. I take a deep breath and mumble “Sure. I’m not doing anything like trying to eat my fucking food.” I put down my plate and wine cup and turn around wearing my best “happy-to-be-here” smile. The photographer is satisfied. I go back to my plate, grumbling like the grouchy elder millennial I am.
Why do I have to pose for pictures every time I leave the house? Maybe I’m out for the sake of fellowship; not to be seen fellowshipping. Maybe–just maybe–you see the plate of food in my hand and can go take pictures of someone else? IS THIS PHOTO OPP REALLY SO URGENT THAT IT CAN’T WAIT UNTIL I DON’T HAVE A FORK IN MY MOUTH?
I get it, I get it. This is an unfortunate byproduct of socializing in the age of social media.
Next time, though? I will politely ask the photographer to catch me when I’m finished fucking eating.