"You are the party," she said.

We were in college. I'm sure I was crying over what the kids now call FOMO. It was easy to do at a party school when I was trying so hard to balance perfectionism and grades and social acceptance and my bad habit of seeing my self-worth reflected (or not) in boys' eyes.

It was a reassuring thought, then and now, when even at forty-one I occasionally feel left out of this get-together or that trip. When I think about places I can't get time away from work to visit or haven't had the money to see yet.

I am the party.

Repeat after me, and see if you smile.

Try moving through life expecting people to embrace you with open arms, knowing you will bring interesting stories and intriguing conversation. Pretend until it is.

Something about this little lie I've told myself since that night when I repeated her in Iowa City, most likely feeling rejected, then feeling better, buoys me even now.

Who cares what they think?
You care what you think.
We all die alone.
So believe, even for a minute, that you are the party.
Let yourself believe.