Cheers to all party poopers

MY friend Leila and I have labelled each other appropriately after discovering that our kids like us for very different reasons.

She, being action mom, will get ‘em tubing, swimming in rivers and hoovering up dunes over holidays, while I, creative mom, might indulge in some literary debate, or a smidgen of teen psychology-driven chat.

These nomenclatures may seem irrelevant to any who don’t physically interact with us, but they are useful self-help tools for women, in particular, who aren’t living authentically.

Labelling is anathema in this, the age of individualism. But I find that the more we do the social media shimmy, the less likely we are to stay true to who we really are; which is why settling on your strengths, rather than trying to be what you’re actually not, may require a label.

Once, I conducted a snap survey to determine whether or not I was a boring person. Since early adolescence, I’ve never seemed able to be the loudest or longest-lasting at a party, and I still can’t bake well, or cook (let alone throw a five-star dinner party with the food, as my clever friend Nici Lovemore does).

I like dancing and I love being invited out. I do go – but never for long. I am, to put it mildly, the fun police.

Since I’m quite a chatty, chirpy, cheery sort – and enjoy any excuse for a glass of wine and a tankard of good conversation – I sucker party people into thinking that I’m fun to be around. Which I am: but only until 11pm-ish.

I was born to worry. I get this from my gran. She always needed the loo at the wrong time and thought she’d left the oven on every time they drove so much as 2km away from the house. Once she did leave it on – so she had a point.

While some folks are slow-to-warm guests who get increasingly well-oiled and wild as the night progresses, I start with a bang and end with a whimper. By midnight, I’m downing cups of tea, ferreting for biscuits in other people’s pantries and treating myself to the free show that is partying people after dark.

Until now, I’ve thought that this was a bad thing. But, really, it’s not. Who better to rescue your crystal ware from shattering as Black Eyed Peas belts you towards 1am, or make a quick round of sarmies for the guys who forgot to eat their boerewors at supper?

I’ve determined that real friends don’t mind who you are after dark, or if you’re in it to win and wing it for the long haul. What matters most, truly, is where your happy place sits. As long as you’re free to return to that label, and space (in my case, a spot on my well-worn blue sofa, with tea and Netflix), it’s all good.

Anyway, everybody needs a friendly party pooper at their weekend braais. We’re cute and funny, like cuddly rabbits – and we don’t bite.