There are few things more terrifying than an invitation that includes the phrase “just a casual get-together.” It’s never casual. It’s an ambush disguised as hospitality. And while some brave souls RSVP yes like social daredevils, others—like me—begin crafting excuses with the dedication of a method actor preparing for Broadway.
Recently, I skipped a party by texting, “I caught a contagious strain of the gay. It’s airborne. You don’t want this sparkle plague.” No follow-up questions were asked. That’s the beauty of absurd excuses—they confuse, disarm, and liberate you from folding chairs, potato salad, and unsolicited acoustic guitar performances.
Let’s be clear: I’m not anti-social. I’m selectively social. I will absolutely show up for brunch, drinks, or any event with air conditioning and a strict exit strategy. But if the invite includes phrases like “game night,” “family potluck,” or “just bring your own chair,” I will vanish like a polite fart in the wind. And I will lie with the enthusiasm of a high schooler faking the flu to avoid gym class.
Sometimes I claim I’m dog-sitting for an emotionally unstable Chihuahua who gets jealous if I make eye contact with other mammals. Or I say I’m on a digital detox—while tweeting that I’m on a digital detox. Or I just send a GIF of someone looking mournful under a rain cloud and whisper, “Not tonight, my spirit is wilting.”
And it’s not just about avoiding boredom. It’s about protecting your peace. There’s a certain kind of event—usually hosted by someone named Megan or Chad—where the dress code is “upscale rustic” and the vibe is “we talk over each other while pretending to be happy.” You don’t attend these events. You survive them. And honestly? I have nothing to prove. I’ve already attended enough forced mingling to earn a Purple Heart in small talk.
Excuses are the real love language of the introvert. “I’m having some plumbing work done” could mean “I don’t feel like wearing pants today.” “I have a prior commitment” might just be “I committed to not committing to anything.” And “I’m not feeling well” is accurate if emotional fatigue counts as a symptom—which, spoiler alert, it does.
There are classic excuses, of course. “I have a migraine,” “my car is acting up,” or “my grandmother died again” (don’t ask, it’s complicated). But then there are elevated excuses. Excuses with flair. Excuses that suggest you’ve been through something specific and weird, which is the social equivalent of putting up a velvet rope and a “Do Not Disturb” sign made of glitter.
Once, I said I couldn’t come to a birthday party because I was busy reorganizing my spice rack by emotional trauma. Another time I claimed I was trapped in a YouTube wormhole about cursed doll museums and couldn’t break free without spiritual intervention. I’ve also blamed Mercury retrograde, a bad tarot reading, and “a vague sense of foreboding.”
The key is confidence. Deliver the excuse like it’s completely reasonable. “I’m sorry, I can’t come to your engagement party—my houseplants are going through a codependency phase and need me right now.” You say that with enough sincerity, and not only will they believe you—they’ll worry for your ficus. Mission accomplished.
There’s also the group text cop-out. Drop a vague “Ugh, rough day! Might not make it,” then ghost like a Victorian child in a haunted attic. If anyone follows up, pretend you dropped your phone in soup. If they ask what kind of soup, say “emotional.”
And let’s not forget the performance exit: you show up, make a lap, grab a drink, loudly say something about needing to “check on the oven,” and disappear. Later, when asked where you went, you reply, “Did I not say goodbye? Oh no! I must’ve entered an Irish fog.” They won’t question it. They’ll just nod like that’s a thing. It is now.
But my favorite excuse—the gold standard, the Beyoncé of cop-outs—is to say, “I’m doing some deep personal work right now.” That phrase is impossible to challenge. It’s vague, noble, and confusing enough to derail follow-up questions. People hear that and immediately picture you on a retreat, journaling in linen while crying over a reiki session. In reality, you’re in bed eating cold cereal out of a measuring cup and watching reality TV with subtitles on. Same energy.
Of course, the catch is that people eventually catch on. They start side-eyeing your RSVPs like they’re part of a social Ponzi scheme. “Didn’t you skip my wedding because you said your aura was congested?” Yes, Jessica. And I stand by that. It was a defensive spiritual measure. Your cousin Gary brings dark energy.
There’s something sacred about protecting your time and energy. We live in a world that wants constant access to our presence, performance, and pleasantness. Sometimes, not showing up is self-care. Sometimes, the only thing more powerful than setting a boundary is doing it with a lie so ridiculous, it becomes legend.
So the next time someone invites you to an event you have no interest in, remember: you are not trapped. You are not obligated. You are a creative being, blessed with the power of language and imagination. Use it. Harness it. Weaponize it in the name of peace.
Tell them you’ve joined a silent cult and can’t talk for three weeks. Say your cat just got broken up with and needs emotional support. Blame a contagious case of the gay, the seasonal moon grief, or a deeply personal grudge against folding chairs.
Whatever you do, do it with flair. They can keep their party. You’ve got pajamas, snacks, and a rock-solid alibi.