I keep struggling with an intrusive thought: I’d like to plan my own surprise party. First, I’d appoint a trusted accomplice as the supposed “party planner.” I’d pass along the handcrafted event description and guest list, emphasizing that, “Arianna arrives at 8 pm sharp.” While baking my own layered vanilla cake with berry jam, I would meticulously curate a lively yet balanced Spotify playlist. An uninformed friend would drag me to a restaurant across the street for dinner. After our meal, I’d squeal while opening the door as the crowd jumps out to yell “SURPRISE.” I would climb onto the table and shout, “Surprise to YOU FOOLS.” I’d do all this nonsense just for the guests to arrive on time.
I don’t want to stay in! My body is just restrained by hefty weights, dragged by forceful magnets. I’m fascinated by humans. I love attending a party where I only know one person but no one else. I can indulge in chatter; work or creative pursuits ideally do not come up in conversation once. Unless, if I force strangers to play 20 questions to guess what I do for a living without context. Instead, I learn about peculiar dreams haunting people since childhood and miscellaneous roommate drama.
If I’m home by midnight, perfect.
Yet, I mourn the most sacred parts of the night that used to invigorate me. At 2 am, sitting on the floor of grimy stairwell to converse with new friends. At 3 am, managing to miss every train transfer by a split second and sleepily enduring the journey to avoid the unspeakable, overpriced Uber. At 4 am, dragging friends down cobblestone streets to find the 24/7 hidden spaghetti spot that I SWEAR EXISTS!
On weekdays, I require setting my alarm absolutely as late as possible to allow for enough time to luxuriously shower and coffee. I enjoy simplicity and efficiency, yet cannot fathom frying an egg before 9 am (more extravagant breakfasts are reserved for the weekend). I don’t conceive any feasibility of rallying for a 11 pm DJ set on a Wednesday. I misleadingly click “going” to three different parties on the same Saturday.
When I finally show face at the bar, I’m overwhelmed by the primal ambiance. I push through sweaty 20-somethings prowling for prey and wonder, am I just privileged to no longer be on the hunt? Eventually, a concert I’ve been looking forward to for 6 months approaches—yet the common cold strikes again. Next, Montezuma’s Revenge curses my stomach 24 hours into a vacation. Maybe, I should never plan anything ever again!
Still, my most transformative ritual remains getting ready for a night out. It’s a reminder that extraordinarily, I am capability of shifting my mood after a full day of lifelessness. No longer am I a sexless being, but instead I pick out an outfit buried at the bottom of my drawer and slick on eyeliner. After hours of sitting in silence, I can hit play and twirl around to music.
For the first time, I’ve begun enjoying the moments spent in solitude at home after leaving a function early. Suddenly, there’s space for another entire evening when prioritizing my homecoming. I can throw my keys down and continue listening to music, this time while dancing in the mirror (after a commute of subtly nodding my head on the train). And also while watering my plants. Maybe even deliberating about ordering new home decor.
Victims of chronic sleepiness deserve to feel alive too sometimes!
Hi Arianna - I'm a freelance writer working on a potential piece for the NY Times and came across one of your tweets that I'd love to chat or email with you about if you have a moment? My email is changcon_14850@yahoo.com. Thank you!