What you were holding at parties

An invitation's coming. A wedding, a birthday, a long table of people you half know. A small dread comes with it. Somewhere underneath, you believe you were better in a room with a cigarette in hand. Warmer. Quicker. Easier with strangers. You're not sure you can hold a room empty-handed.

That ease was never charm. It was a hall pass. The one excuse to leave any gathering on earth, anytime, no questions asked. Nobody follows you. Nobody calls it rude. A few minutes alone outside, and you could walk back in good for another hour. The cigarette charged admission to a break that was always free.

The hall pass still works. You just stopped paying for it. Step out for air. Take a slow lap around the block. Find the bathroom you don't need. What you needed was a few minutes of quiet, and the world hands that out for nothing. The warmth people love at your table was never in your hand. God put it in you, and it stayed.

Say yes to the next invite. Plan your lap before you arrive, so the exit's already yours. On the drive or the walk over, one line to God. Walk into this room with me. Then go be the person they invited. Take your lap, walk back in, and let them have the real you.