Plus, it was baseball—hands-down my favorite spectator sport these days after countless hours cheering on my own children as they ran bases around a Little League field. I mentally flashed- forward to the four of us sitting inside the waterfront ballpark in San Francisco— arguably the most beautiful stadium in the country with its stunning views in every direction—and I had my answer. “I’d love to come!” I grinned at my son. “Please say ‘thank you’ and tell Adam that I’ll call his mom later to sort out the details.”
My son nodded, and after a brief pause, looked up again. “So, I guess they have VIP tickets from the school auction. We have field access to meet the players. And we can go to the Gotham Club.” And that’s when it happened—“it” being the exact moment that my thinking turned dark. I felt myself freeze, my excitement shift to dread. This was no longer a simple day at the ballpark, munching on hot dogs and popcorn while waving foam fingers. This was a full-blown social event interacting with famous athletes. This was a fancy, historic speakeasy with dangling chandeliers, dark paneled walls and a floor-to-ceiling display of liquor bottles glistening behind the bar. The whole outing suddenly seemed drenched in alcohol. And I felt paralyzed with insecurity and self-doubt. The voice in my head berated me: “She made a mistake inviting you. She has no idea that you don’t drink and are actually an anxiety-ridden, awkward dud. If only you could drink, you would be fun and likable. You would be more confident and charming. You would be worthy of this invite.”
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