Mr. Popularity Strikes Again

I attended a cocktail reception the other night. It was hosted by the Richmond Association of Realtors, which is an excellent association, even if it is made up primarily of real estate agents. One quick sidepoint before I get into the real meat of this column. Doesn't it seem to you that realtors should know how to pronounce what they are. I cringe every time a realtor calls himself a "real-a-tor."
Anyway, back to my main gripe. Why I don't like cocktail receptions, or virtually any social gathering, for that matter. I'll admit right up front, I'm not very good at cocktail receptions, so I don't very often go. But this one was held at the Country Club of Virginia. I've never been there. And, I was curious. Just how do the other half live?
First to answer that question, I wasn't all that impressed by the CCV. Its urinals were no better than any Shoney's I've visited. When you get my age, you measure all experiences by the quality of the restrooms. Actually the stalls were a little small. Maybe all rich people are small. They did have cotton towels rather than paper ones. But, since you can't (or I won't) blow my nose on a cotton towel, again, I wasn't overly impressed.
The food was also not up to what I would have thought rich folks eat. It was all rather bland, I'm guessing since the average age of the members at the club is somewhere near 82, the culinary staff is more intent on providing hors d'oeuvres that can be gummed, rather than worrying about taste.
But, the food and toilets were passable (no pun intended). The real thing I hated about the party is the thing I hate about all such gatherings, nobody ever talks to me. Regardless of the function I attend (including my own wedding), everybody else seems to be chatting it up with everyone else, and I'm just kinda standing around looking pathetic.
I try to stand right next to others who are engaged in conversation in order to create the impression that I'm part of their happy little group. I even laugh when they laugh. But invariably, within moments, they'll notice me and, en masse, move away.
I sometimes get the feeling that I must have a sign on my back that reads, "ignore me." Even if I run into people I know, they'll just smile and move on along so as to be with the fun people. I've even come up with some ice-breaking conversation starters, hoping to get someone to acknowledge my existance. I'll go up to a group sitting at one of the small tables. I'll point to an empty chair and cleverly ask, "Is anyone sitting there?" The least they could do is smile and tell me someone is indeed sitting there. They don't even do that. They barely look up.
The other night I felt like I was playing the Jimmy Stewart role in It's a Wonderful Life, except I didn't even have an angel around to chat with. I don't know what it is. I was dressed okay. My teeth had been brushed relatively recently. Even my deodorant was working pretty well. But I spent an hour-and-a-half pretending I was talking to other people. Sometimes I'd even carry two glasses with me to make others think I was taking a drink to a companion. The more I reflect on my experiences the other night, the clearer it becomes just how unpopular I really am. Think about it. You know you're really at the acme of your unpopularity when you can't even get a real estate agent to talk to you.