The dinner guest

I have had to confront life's harsh realities each of the last two weekends. Maturity motivated me to act in ways foreign to my instincts. While my inner voice was screaming for someone to turn on the television, the screen remained dark. I was a guest at dinner parties, while my beloved Yankees were battling the elements and the enemy.

Sure, I was allowed to talk about the game. Everyone at each of the gatherings was aware of the depth of my obsession. However, much of the evening's conversation focused on various topics that I find myself immersed in when in the company of others without my myopic interests.

Time and effort had gone into the planning of each of these events. I understood that it would be an insult to our host and hostess, and a blatant sign that I was a boorish idiot if I made too much of a fuss. Even as I made periodic momentary retreats to capture slivers of what was happening, I knew I had to tough it out.

Actually, both of these evenings were much fun. The food was excellent, the smiles were genuine, and there was a flow to the conversation. By the way, I am not just sucking up to my friends who may be reading about their efforts.

But, by the time dessert was served and eaten, I had lost all pretense. On both occasions, as the last morsel passed my lips, I made a hasty exit into the den. I only hoped that I had met the mandates of civility and could now spend the remaining part of the evening screaming at the sights and sounds of little men running to and fro.