not so cute in a thirty-year-old

My nephew, Theo, adorably thinks every colorful, wrapped package he sees is a gift for him. Equally cute is how, if you present him with a "present" that isn't wrapped, he accepts it, then asks, "Where's the present?"

Mr. Muss and I are at a similar toddler-like stage in our new membership in the married-or-getting-married club. In this stage, we blindly assume that whenever a wedding is being discussed, we will be invited. Our first brush, sort of, with this previously unimagined realm of social anxiety occurred before our wedding. When my dear friend since high school got engaged, I assumed we were going to be invited, because it was all we ever talked about: the dress, the photographer selection, the invitation font. When, about two months before the wedding date, Ben pointed out that we hadn't received an invitation, then dropped the subtlety completely and danced around the house singing, "You didn't get in-VI-ted! You didn't get in-VI-ted!", my heart sank...then fluttered madly with panic, as I remembered all the times I so blatantly let my friend know I expected an invitation. Like, the times I talked about shopping for a new dress for her wedding, or the times I said things like, "I can't wait for your wedding!"

Turns out, of course, we were invited to that one. My friend, with-it as she is, was sticking the the proper tradition of sending invitation six weeks in advance. Kind of the equivalent of not arriving at a party too early. I think I told her eventually how Ben had horrified and taunted me, and we had a good laugh.

Well, it's happened again, only this time I'm pretty sure it's for real. And this time, thanks to my big mouth, we'll probably end up getting a mercy invitation, which we'll have to figure out how to politely decline so we don't become the a-holes of the wedding.

Hmm, this sounds oddly like the times in junior high when I would think girls were inviting me to the movies or a slumber party, and it would turn out that they were just talking about their plans in my presence, loudly, only to create an opportunity to snub me and laugh hysterically as I wondered if my breath smelled like Funyuns or if I'd gotten something on my white Bongo miniskirt.

But that's a conversation for my therapist, or my locked diary. The lesson I've learned recently is that run-of-the-mill parties (which are inevitably potlucks here) and nights out to the bar are one thing; it's embarrassing, but not mortifying, to find that you've invited yourself to them. But when it comes to weddings, you must take every measure possible to prevent that from happening. My advice: keep your trap shut when the W word comes up. Nod, yes; smile, maybe; but do not say anything that could remotely be construed as implying or assuming that you are even on the radar for an invitation. Your self-respect is not worth the risk!

But it would still be cute as all get-out if Theo did it.