A Couples Therapist Goes to a Party

I don’t go to parties a lot. I consider myself an extrovert, but as I age, I’m evolving more into an ambivert.

I’m a couples therapist. I spend my days in very intimate conversations with one or two people, between 60 and 120 minutes. We are off our phones. We are 100 percent present. I have the privilege and responsibility of meeting people at their most vulnerable, which is a rare occupation. And I don’t just talk with my clients. We work through, laugh, cry, challenge, rupture, repair, and play. Call it emotional and mental intimacy. In that sense, one could consider me a paid intimacy worker. Since I mostly work remotely, every interaction in my day is either super deep or nonexistent, like a server at a store.

Last week my wife and daughter were still at camp, and my son was at a sleepover. There was a party. I said I’d go. Friends drove me so I could have a drink and relax. I got there and realized I was out of my comfort zone. Here are four things I learned that night.

A party is a swingers party

As we previously wrote, there are three channels to connect with another person: physical, mental, and emotional. A good, mind-stretching conversation is mind- mating, or intellectual intercourse. A conversation where you share feelings and feel alive is hearting, or emotional lovemaking.

A party is a socially acceptable event where people go in hopes of mind-mating and hearting with others.

With many people in a room, we tend to have relational quickies. One-minute or five-minute stands, where we both exchange something. It can be shallow, like where I got the sweater. It can be very deep, like my parents got divorced when I was 3; both are allowed within four minutes of meeting a person. They stretch us, because these are people we don’t live or work with.

People want this. Some of us do it at work, in the gym, community center, or the pool. Some are very good at it. I’m not. My biological clock for a relational encounter is 60 to 120 minutes. I’m not in shape.

People leave in the middle

I was talking with someone about a vision I have for a Netflix special. She was loving it. She was “yes-and”-ing me. We were brainstorming over my and my wife’s careers. Then somebody said hello to her, and the conversation ended. She turned. That was it.

I was surprised and micro-insulted. What? How could she end now? We just shared a moment.

Then I asked myself why I was getting insulted. In the clinic, I control the setting. I know when the conversation ends. I can choreograph it. At a party, there is the two-feet law. If you’re not contributing or gaining anything, you move. It’s not personal; it’s the convention. And since it’s brief, you never know how deep it will go. Sometimes you confess to a stranger what you wouldn’t dare tell a close acquaintance. Other times it’s about the type of cheese on the table.

You get to choose which you shows up

We all have different parts, or self-states. The confident, silly, flirty, professional, sad parts. In daily life, we lead with two or three relational business cards at home and at work, with people who know us in a certain light. At a party, you get to choose which self-state to lead with. In a five-minute stand, you can stop in the middle and pivot.

Early in the evening, people asked how my summer has been. I automatically stressed the challenges. The adjustment since we moved, the complexities of summer camp. That’s where I naturally go. In psychotherapy, we call this negative attention: getting attention through what’s not working, difficulties, pain, and the darker shades.

In my third relational quickie, I realized I wanted to change this. I chose honest and positive, without faking happiness. The true truth is that I’m grateful; I’m learning all these things, and I never really realized that. The following encounters focused on learning, expansion, and realizations instead of difficulty. What let me switch was curiosity over certainty, the first equation in the relational math of change.

And it goes past what you choose to bring. Every person in that room is different; they force, entice, and invite other parts of you. You get to discover yourself through the party. That’s the genius of it.

I’m used to having deep intimate playdates. A party is one big playground. Parties, like marriage, are a relational gym for all your self-states. What I got to practice that night was the playful, improvisational, positive parts of me.

Nobody’s expecting you to say goodbye

My ride was leaving. I started to say goodbye, which can be another long, emotional round with every single person I shared a somewhat meaningful conversation, at least for me.

Then I stopped. How many people do I actually need to say goodbye to? How many conversations passed the bar? I do the closing round because I’m used to closing every conversation with ritualistic awareness and sensitivity. That night I realized I didn’t need to. Part of the social contract is that you can leave things open. The only exception is the host. Thank you and goodbye, the minimum to show respect. Everyone else is not expecting it. You get to leave without shame or heaviness.

I came home invigorated and started to process the evening. It was an intense relational workout. It shed light on why I chose my profession, and why people love parties. We are relational creatures who crave connection.

Do I want more relational quickies? How do I create more relational playgrounds in my life? The truth is sometimes you just want to dabble. Sometimes you just want to party.

…

Want more from your relationship? We took four of our best couples’ worksheets for partners who are ready to change so you can start today. Click here to download them for free.