Spinning Plates

I recently had a small dinner party. Two couples came over for dinner that we hadn't seen all together in an intimate setting in ages. Years, to be honest. We had cocktails and hors d'oevres, then dinner and dessert. It was a grand evening.

After dinner we all headed down into the basement to play a little ping-pong. More fun was had by all. It was there, a half hour into a very raucous-y game of doubles that I realized that not one but probably two of my dinner guests were pregnant. Two out of three. Two thirds. Naturally, no one had said anything. It was clearly not meant to be public yet. So I spent the next little while staring at their bellies and boobs and thinking back to all the demure declines of alcohol with waves of hands and mentions of "designated drivers." Of courrrse.

I continued my ping-pong game, my conversation with friends, and the one in my head about their good fortune/my envy and, I must say, was very impressed with myself. Spinning three plates at once! Where's my medal?

Then I thought about how funny it was that we weren't talking about the fact that they were both pregnant. Two best friends, preggo at the same time is certainly worth at least 10 minutes of good material. "Did you plan it?" "Won't it be fun to go through it together?" Etc. I mean, intellectually, I know why people don't divulge, not until they're ready anyway. There are many good reasons for this, which I don't have to tell you. But tonight there's the B-story dramatic element that I can't get pregnant and tried in vain for three years and they both know that. Added tension. And the fact that the last time I saw one of these gals was at her husband's birthday party when a little awkward moment occurred.

While graciously introducing me to one of her lovely friends, and I'm not being facetious, she was lovely, she mentioned that we had probably met before but hadn't seen each other in two years, to which her friend blurted, "Wow, in two years I've gotten pregnant and had another baby!" To which I said, "Congratulations!" and not, "Really? I've had three failed IVF attempts and a frozen embryo showing great promise fizzle inside my barren womb!"

But I didn't hold it against her, how could I? She didn't even know me. And she looked great and was so proud of her miraculous feat and why shouldn't she be? She had a friggin' baby which is, indeed, a miraculous feat and worth shouting from the rooftops. Anyway, when she bounded off to refill her glass, my friend was sweetly apologetic and I told her there was no need. Que sera, sera.

So now there's the ping-pong players, the party chit-chatters, and the 600 pound gorilla sitting cross-legged on the musty basement pull-out couch all having ourselves a time. It got me thinking about other questions that you just don't get to ask unless you're really drunk and your acquaintance is clearly drunker:

1. Are your boobs real?
2. Do you dye your hair?
3. How much money do you make?
and
4. How's the sex?

This is what we don't get to know. Which I guess is what makes for the heightened energy at gatherings where you don't know everyone intimately. Don't get me wrong, there's a whole different kind of heightened energy when spending time with folks you do know intimately. That's super fun, too. Knowing so much back story that you can be interpreting two and sometimes three layers of subtext at once can be like being like translating during UN peace talks or reading the English subtitles during an Italian opera. It's like a social toboggan ride of intrigue. And since these days I'm a walking Spanish soap opera, I bet I'm one of the most exhilarating rides.

So, the party was a success, even though I overcooked the lasagna. And now, I get to wait to see how things unfold. How will my suspicions be confirmed? Via friend of friend? Will I be told by the expectant mothers themselves? Will I read about it in the funny papers? Or will I hear it in the distance in the quiet of the evening, when the wind is calm and there's no rustle in the trees, being gleefully shouted from the rooftops.