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| buh-bye! (photo by Dmitry Zlovolsky on Pexels) |
I HATE goodbyes at the end of gatherings. For eons, I was trapped in the etiquette loop:
“Thanks for a lovely evening!”
“You’re SO welcome.”
“Dinner was delicious!”
“I’m glad. Not everyone likes pickled Brussels sprouts.”
“You certainly made converts of us!”
“Thank YOU for bringing that delicate orchid plant!”
“We figured you’d be the only friends who could keep it alive!”
“We’ll do our best!”
“Make sure you feed it some pickled Brussels sprouts!”
“Of course…huh?”
“Joke!”
“Ah. Well, take care!”
“You too!”
By now it’s after midnight and you still haven’t retrieved your coat. Surely this ritual is equally painful for host and guest, no?
So, I was delighted to learn about the Irish exit. This masterful approach to leave-taking involves a literal disappearing act. At some point, you just fade away, subtly slipping out the door. No prolonged farewells. No attenuated chitchat at the end of an already chitchat-full evening. Poof! You are suddenly gone, leaving behind a happy memory and a labor-intensive hostess gift.
Note: the Irish exit is only acceptable when you are not the sole guest…ideally, there are several folks in attendance, and you can gracefully ease your way out undetected. If it’s just you for dinner? Sorry, buddy, you’re stuck.
Why Irish? One theory is that, during the Great Potato Famine, many Irish had to emigrate to the US without time for proper farewells. Others point to the Irish resistance to showy displays of emotion, or to the stereotypical Irishman or gal who has had a bit too much to drink and just wants to get home.
But it isn’t only Irish. This quick, silent adios is also known in England as “French leave,” in France as “English goodbye” and in Germany as “Polish exit.” In other words, it’s often used while throwing shade at another nationality.
I confess that, in the past, I always made the effort to seek out my host/hostess, even at a crowded shindig. But nowadays I’m more and more inclined to twenty-three skidoo, rationalizing that no one will really miss me anyway, not with a mob also wending its way towards the vestibule.
It’s going well so far. I’m learning to make like Casper and de-materialize when the witching hour strikes. The trick is to remember to grab your things before drifting off. A couple of times, I’ve had to shamefacedly ring the doorbell to retrieve my phone, car keys, snow boots, etc. At that point, face-to-face with the party giver, there’s only one thing to do:
“Thanks so much for helping me find my wallet! I have no idea how it got into your dishwasher!”
“No worries! I didn’t even notice you had left!”
“Our sitter called. Gracie’s not feeling well.”
“Oh goodness! Hope your daughter feels better!”
“Um, it’s Gracie, our dog sitter.”
“I didn’t know you had a dog!”
“We’re planning ahead for when we get one.”
And so on, forever and ever, Amen.
I’m learning to live without my snow boots. Not worth it.
