Saturday night held the invitation to a Christmas party. Knowing the hosts to be fashionable, festive, and fun, I was sporting velvet britches and platform Fly Londons. I had a hostess gift and a dessert, and my White Elephant stuffed into an oversized gift bag. Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit was fighting the cough due to cold, so I was flying solo.

Having never been to the couple’s house before, the address, West Railroad Street, baffled Siri. First, we went to a Taqueria, and then we drove for a few hot seconds on the actual train tracks before common sense me told Siri to calm the hell down and use critical thinking skills for goodness’ sake. Luckily, I spotted the hostess in her kitchen window and did a U-y. Siri did not like that, so she had to sit in the car during the party and think about what she had done.

Even though I’m extra on the extrovert scale, walking into a party involves risk. What if I’m dressed wrong or confuse social cues? Velvet pants and platform shoes – am I dressed like Thelma from Good Times? What if I’m too quiet or too loud or too nerdy or too shallow? What if I use the wrong utensil or spill wine or knock someone down or trip on the carpet? Look at me, I can’t even maintain a relationship with Siri.

But I didn’t listen to my inner doubt voice. My velvet pants and I soldiered to the door and the warmth of the greeting assured me that I was in the right place, among good people. I hugged current friends and made new ones. I learned about the history of the house, where Mayor Y Z Newberry (no first or middle names, just initials,) once lived and was gunned down on his own porch because of his enforcement of the prohibition law. This tale was told in what was once Y Z’s kitchen ­– over Christmas cocktails, which caused us all to raise a toast and laugh. RIP, Mr. YZ. Newport has come a long way, baby.

I learned about how people met their spouses and about children and dogs and backgrounds and professions. I made connections and filled in gaps in stories. I ate yummy food and spent some quality time with my new best friend, the rosemary sugar cookie.

The activity part of the evening was a White Elephant gift exchange. Perhaps you know the drill. Everyone brings a gift and people draw numbers and pick an unopened gift or steal a gift that has been previously chosen and unwrapped by another party goer.

This is an intense experience in human behavior and reverse psychology/sociology at its finest. I mean, who wouldn’t want shot glasses shaped as urinals or a light up Christmas Gnome?

The poor Gnome was de-boxed and displayed on a coffee table to tempt those journeying to the gift area to consider how their life might be enhanced with this creature added to one’s decoration ensemble. All passed it by, titillated by the attraction of an unwrapped gift. Choosing the un-Gnome over the gnome. (Hee. Hee.)

In the White Elephant exchange, some are reduced to pitch their newly acquired wares with the vigor of a state fair carney, “I love the holiday accented jumbo margarita bowl, but I’m willing to sacrifice it.” “This gentle foaming soap is sure to make showers more pleasant.” Anyone? Anyone?

Love and blessings upon the people who opened something special just to have it snatched from their tiny, clenching grips. The pain on those sweet faces, only harshened by the lack of regret in the thieves. Such is life.

And in a way, I thought, as I drove home listening to Christmas music, admiring the twinkling of lights, and yards adorned with puffy inflatables, my window rolled down on a warm December night, it is life in a stretchy kind of metaphor.

Show up. Leave Siri in the car. Be among friends, old and new. Bring your gifts. Exchange for good and bad. Let your heart feel happy and free.

Of course, I was the real winner as I scored the Tricerataco – a dinosaur taco holder. I know you want it, but it’s mine.

May your nights be merry and bright.