Rough week, rough weekend. Not for the household as a whole. But for me a series of fumblings and bumblings and frustrations at every turn, howlings and wailings and weeps, topped off by an ill-conceived jaunt yesterday evening to show my support for the recent marriage of a friend.

I thought the town's name "Adin," which is 40 miles west of here through the mountains, yet for some reason still conceived of it as Canby, another, smaller town only 20 miles west on the same highway. So I misjudged the travel time and the expense of fuel, and spent a week's grocery money on gas and was 30 minutes late to the celebration.

I was surprised and glad, for the couple, to see the large size of the gathering in the little community hall there. I had my brother with me; Husband wisely stayed home, more accepting of his social limitations. And he had to work.

But I drove forth bravely, as always envisioning happy smiles of welcome and hugs and dances and new persons met and befriended. And as always confronted instead with the vastness of my capacity for self-delusion. I knew exactly one person there - the bride - and she was preoccupied, naturally. I had met the new hubby and he greeted me warmly, but as I was about to utter his name my anxiety froze my brain, convinced me it was wrong, and I faltered over it, seeming to have forgotten it instead. Thought paralysis - the Aspy reaction to social stress.

So B and I sat alone at our table on the periphery, fidgeting, watchful for our friend the bride so we might tell her how lovely was her dress and exclaim over her rings and wish her well. She walked from table to table, chatting and laughing, but returned to the front of the room before getting to us. And then a grace was said by the local pastor, and the entire assembly stood as one and rushed forward to load their plates with feast. My spirit sank through the floor: I would never be able to join a throng of indifferent unknowns in order to fill our plates, and anyway the question was moot - the offering was lasagna and bread and three beautiful decorated sheet cakes, all delicious-looking to and inedible by my brother, who has celiac disease (gluten sensitivity), and by me, determined to stay wheat-free out of solidarity.

We hadn't come for the food, anyway, and my stress level peaked with the forward rush of the crowd, and I took brotherB by the hand and fled with him out the building's back door. To compensate a little for the beautiful food he did not get to eat, I bought him a chocolate bar at the local mercantile, and then we drove sedately over the mountain passes and past the pastures with their hundred cows and finally into our driveway. We walked in the door, and Husband inquired, and I burst into tears.

So it is resolved: henceforward, however much I want to attend such events, however close I may feel to the celebrants, my response will be "We are unable to attend social events, but our thoughts are with you." And they will be. Because I do love people so much. But they terrify me.