The Dinner Dilemma

Having guests for dinner is always an auspicious occasion. One must prepare a succulent meal for those who have taken the time to bless the hosts with their presence. Each room must be properly swept and cleared of any irrelevant decor that may be even slightly repugnant to the honored guests. We do not wish to deter a return visit from those who enter our humble abode.

A family's home is a reflection of their subconscious life standards. One home may deem it worthy to leave their living quarters in disarray due to the growing familiarity of where everything is placed. Another household may see fit to leave everything in a state of whimsical allure, lining their walls with artistic renditions and oddities that would make any well-educated, or those of a less intellectually strong disposition, take notice. My family is somewhere happily in the middle of the two presented extremities.

But, when we have guests, our fascination with presenting a comfortable dining environment takes center stage. My mother cooks a delicious recipe that emits an aromatic presence equal only to the finest of restaurants while my father and I help to create a flawless representation of our residence.

When the guests finally arrived, I was ready to welcome them. After taking a few moments to reply to their inquiries, and to make some of my own, we all placed ourselves around the dining room table. A quiet prayer was said over the meal. There is a respectful silence that falls over us all when my father says the prayer. It may be simple or complex depending on the discerned needs to which we pray for, but it is always brief.

Soon after the prayers were offered, we passed around the serving dishes, serving appropriate portions to each member of the gathered party. If one partakes in too little a portion, my mother quickly attends to their humble needs by presenting more food to them. Most guests do not wish to appear glutinous, or even slightly famished, so that they do not disrupt the pleasant atmosphere we labored to create.

As I listened to the conversation, I continually filled my mouth with juicy chicken and rice. The flavors danced around in my mouth as I chewed politely. Whenever a piece of cuisine tried to escape from my oral prison, I delicately wiped it with a napkin that was thoughtfully placed next to my plate. Little laughs and chuckles were exchanged as my dad and one of the guests enjoyed a subtle, but altogether witty banter. It was quite entertaining watching my parents and the guests interact so pleasantly.

Little heads of broccoli and cheese slid into my mouth as I listened to our guests tell stories about their adventures in life. I've had quite a few of my own, but I did not know when to interject. Should I wait until the inevitable silence that follows such a long string of contextual storytelling, or should I politely inject my own experiences in the midst of their polite dinner conversation?

It is in these times that one begins to wonder how to carry themselves. My speech in person is not as eloquent as one would presume by reading my musings on this blog. I am not a barbaric speaker, and I do have a respectable grasp on the English language, but I find it difficult to understand how to properly converse when in the presence of my parent's dinner guests.

Around my friends I'm a jovial, yet surprisingly intellectual, adult who can manage himself around any audience, but around those I highly respect, I am quite different. My reserve of boisterous observations are kept in the harbor while I allow the elegant sailing of wise elders dictate the course of conversation. In other words, I'm silent under the eyes of those I esteem, except for my parents. They cannot silence the bubbly well of wit that dwells within my soul, but then again they have never tried. Not to say that my guests had prevented any outpouring of my personality, because they support my character, but it's different than familial understanding.

So there I remained, glued to my chair by an unspoken expectation of stillness. I continued enjoying my meal while they recounted events when suddenly I noticed something. The last bite of food slid down my esophagus and I let out a slight sigh in culinary bliss. It was delicious. My hands folded themselves in front of me while my eyes surveyed the situation.

They first glanced over to my father, who was laughing and politely scooping more chicken and rice onto his plate, letting out a pleasant remark to my mother who handed it to him. My mother was softly biting buttery chunks from a dinner role while talking to one of our guests. With each passing observation I began to take in the situation and became temporarily paralyzed. A little knot formed in my throat that I tried to swallow down before it made a fuss about anything. There was no time for that here.

A little bubble formed in my gut from the intake of food, and I silenced that by slightly tilting my rear. Thankfully, no one noticed the sudden expulsion of air from my side of the room. My hands wandered around trying to find something to do. They couldn't follow the lead of my voice, since I was silent, yet they had nothing to do non-verbally because of my lack of available interactions. It was after all of these minor distractions that I fully realized the situation I was in. I was the only person at the table who had finished eating.

As I watched my family and guests gather more food onto their emptying plates, I felt a sense of cold loneliness. I could no longer hide my social insecurity under the guise of feasting. There would be no food in my mouth to excuse myself from speaking, so I would have to develop a reason for my lack of involvement in the evening conversation.

To clarify, it was not a lack of interest or desire to interact with my guests that led me to this position. I enjoy their company greatly, but I also highly respect their opinion of me. The more I allow myself to recollect my observations, the further I felt the need to apologize for not living up to my perceived vision of their expectations.

While my mind ran it's intellectual course on the nature of my situation, I began to realize that my mother was letting her eyes rest on me from across the table. She noticed something was different in my countenance, so I obliged her with an answer.

I was no longer hungry, and apparently the pace I set to finish my meal was not in sync with the rest of the dinner party. She smiled and continued her conversation with them. Within a few minutes, while my mind was wandering off into some land where nervousness had not been invented, one of the guests directly addressed me.

"...so tell us your story." He said, glancing at me from across the table. I froze. What part of the story did he want to hear?

"How you and your fiance met." He responded to my subconscious inquiry. Somewhere deep inside me I realized that he somehow could pinpoint what thought was traveling through my distracted mind.

I sat up straight and cleared my throat. A nervous chuckle escaped me as I suddenly corrected my approach to the question. After a deep breath, I went through the details of my first meeting with my wonderful fiance. What I failed to notice was that my eyes weren't meeting anyone at the table. If my mind could record my storytelling experience to film, it'd look as though I was a cameraman with two noodles for arms.

The salad bowl silently listened to my detailed account of how she knew one of my college friends, while the chicken sat through my explanation of our first date. My fork and knife seemed excited to hear about our engagement in the mountains of Tennessee, and after all of that was finished, the glass of water applauded by promptly spilling itself all over my father's side of the table. Somehow, I had managed to swing my arm halfway across the dining room table to make an exaggerated point about my life's adventure. That was the last point I was going to make that night.

My arms suddenly retracted to the sides of my body like a sprung mousetrap, then my hands crawled and interlaced together like two spiders cuddling to keep warm. After regaining my composure, I gathered up my napkin and relieved the table of water sitting duty. I also soaked some of the fibers with the floor's recently acquired residue. What a mess, I thought to myself.

I felt a sudden dread deep within my soul. I had managed to not only be the least sociable person that evening, but also the most intrusive. What a night.

A sigh escaped my weary chest as I looked at our guests in self-pity. Deep down I knew they were laughing at my animated personality, but a creeping suspicion of doubt and loathing tried to rudely interject. No, I thought to myself as I finished cleaning up my mess. I will continue to be a pleasant host, even if I feel as though my evening was ruined.

After giving myself an encouraging internal monologue, I addressed them both and thanked them for coming. They said it was a mutual pleasure to see me as well. With a final statement and a polite excusing of myself, I left the presence of my parents and company so that I could retire to my room for the night.

Even though I could have let my mind make me doubt my worth in those few moments of embarrassment, I decided to look at the situation and laugh at myself instead. The best solution to overcoming situations such as these is humor, not at the expense of others, but for the betterment of yourself. If you can laugh at yourself, then it doesn't matter if the world is laughing too.