I love throwing parties and creating events.

During my career, I have, planned and hosted memorable parties around the US Open, the Super Bowl, the Final Four, Rock ‘n Roll happenings and more occasions than I can remember.

I love the whole production.

Give me a gathering, large or small, and I am enthusiastically off and running.

I dive into planning the menu, cook all day if it is my own personal party, alternatively consult with chefs and caterers, order the flowers, choose the tableware, obsess over the music and arrange the delicacies on a carefully considered mix of modern and vintage crockery as though Architectural Digest might drop by unannounced.

Candles lit.

Wine chilled.

Bar stocked.

Talent hired.

Flowers perfect.

Playlist calibrated to sound effortlessly fabulous.

I am happy.

And then the doorbell rings or the event kicks into gear and the doors are thrown open.

Oh, right.

Guests.

Apparently, they are part of the party.

I want the guests to come. I want them to walk in and think everything looks wonderful. I want them to love the food, appreciate the flowers, notice the music and perhaps spend a respectable amount of time admiring a serving platter I hunted down.

I just don’t particularly want to be in attendance.

Ideally, I would slip quietly out the back door just as everyone arrives and look forward to receiving a group text three hours later:

Best party ever!

Perfect.

Because I’ve finally realized that I do not necessarily love being in the moment.

I love preparing to entertain.

I love imagining the party and everything that goes along with it and making people feel welcome and special.

This does not make me antisocial.

I am selectively social with an expiration date.

So please, come to my next shindig.

Eat. Drink. Enjoy yourselves.

Just don’t be disappointed if, at some point, you look around and realize you haven’t seen the host in a while.

Know that I am absolutely thrilled that you are having a wonderful time.