Time was I attended almost every event I was invited to.

Nowadays my response is more likely to be, “I am unable to come owing to a subsequent engagement,” to paraphrase the ever-astute Oscar Wilde. The subsequent engagement, more often than not, will turn out to be a riveting novel or season 4 of Lost, but my real reason for refusing is that I am not very good at social gatherings unless I know most of the other guests.

One good thing about growing older is you don’t get invited to many showers, the ultimate source of awkward conversation and dreaded party games. But just when you think it’s safe to pick up the mail, one of your children’s friends decides to take the plunge into wedding bell hell and there you are, left holding a shower invitation.

Before I came to Canada, the only shower I had ever encountered was the kind that came from a big, black cloud, wedding and baby showers being non-existent across the pond. This may be because Brits, in general, are not especially gregarious, and the thought of mingling with a bunch of strangers and, worse still, indulging in competitive party games at which I was doomed to fail ignominiously, was enough to give me heart failure.

The first shower I ever attended was for my husband and me, to acknowledge the imminent arrival of our son. It was held downtown and included wine (although I couldn’t drink any). My introduction to this ritual, therefore, was deceptively pleasant, particularly since men were allowed and the only thing resembling a party game was the attempt to get jolly revellers inside taxis at the evening’s end.

After that I discovered that not all showers were created equal. The vast majority were girls only and alcohol free, and featured an interminable amount of female bonding and a hat fashioned out of a paper plate, which the bride-to-be or new mother was forced to wear while her bridesmaids/friends stuck bows from presents on it. And, of course, those terrifying games.

One consisted of passing a cucumber from person to person. The catch was you had to hold it between your knees, and each time we got through another round, a chunk of the cucumber was lopped off. I certainly got to know my fellow revellers pretty well by the time it was over, and I must admit I ended up laughing my head off, and tripping over the small dogette owned by the host. It was a long time before I ate salad again.

A more recent shower organized by my daughter, who was maid of honour at her friend’s wedding, was held in one of those featureless recreation centres attached to ‘an exclusive enclave of upscale homes’ somewhere far out in the boonies west of Toronto. Knowing my foibles, Clare kindly placed me with two of her most subversive pals, neither of whom could stomach the whole all-in-together girls gaiety gig.

The only real game consisted of creating a wedding cake out of multi-coloured marshmallows and toothpicks. It was a team effort, and since our team consisted entirely of veteran non-joiners, the best thing you could say about our entry was that it was unique.

We laughed hysterically. We bonded (gasp). We lost. But deep down inside, we knew our entry simply took the cake. And I’m only going to another shower if Katie and Janti come too.

Categories: Columns, Vintage Whine
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