"But what will I wear??!"

When we were younger (last week), supper with friends consisted of going out to eat at some restaurant like Applebee's or something just as predictable.

Last night, it meant going over to a friend's house with a bottle of wine and eating REAL FOOD.

It should be noted, I ate my vegetables. I ate many helpings of potatoes. And I ate pork. And I drank real wine. So many surprises in four sentences; I can hardly stand it.

It was very grown-up of us, and very cool of them to invite us over to their house and cook and make awesome dessert and not even make us clean up. Whoa. Whoa. It being our first real dinner party, I had envisioned something like Charlie's party in "High Fidelity." Like, they'd be wearing really artsy clothes and obscure music would be playing.

(I should confess, I compare a lot of my life to "High Fidelity." I'm waiting for the moment I have to go pick Dave up from lying in some muddy flowerbed in the rain in a suit.)

I stressed out about the dinner all day (it practically ruined my antique-shopping mood -- almost): about what I would wear, and what I'd do if they made fish (I'd die, that's what I'd do). Being adult enough to go to a dinner party doesn't mean you're old enough to stop worrying about what you're going to wear. I tried on 286 outfits in my head. I don't even own that many clothes.

But, really, they dressed like normal people and we played some Justin Timberlake (not ashamed, I'll say it again, we listened to some Justin Timberlake), and the food was really good. No fish.

What bored me when I was 19 now made me feel very ... adult. I just went to a dinner party. And stayed out too late. And, ergo, completely missed Steven's big iPod DJing (iJing, if you will) debut. I feel badly about that. But, alas. It was Sunday. It's hard to get me out of the house on Sundays.

Baby steps. Baby steps.