Twenty to five on a Thursday

It's twenty to five on a Thursday, and you've been composing a message for ten minutes. Tomorrow at six there are leaving drinks for a colleague at the pub round the corner from work. You've sat opposite her for three years and you like her. When the email went round a fortnight ago you replied "Count me in" within a minute.

The dread started on Monday. It began as a small weight when you remembered Friday, and it's grown each day since. By now you've pictured the evening a dozen times. You see yourself walking in and not seeing anyone you know well. You're standing at the edge of a group with a drink, with nothing to say. Someone asks what you've been up to and your mind goes white. You can feel your face going red, as it does.

The message says, "So sorry, something's come up at home and I won't be able to make it tomorrow. Have a brilliant night, and I'll catch you before you go." You read it twice and send it.

The relief is immediate and physical. Your shoulders come down. The weight that's been there since Monday is gone, and the rest of the afternoon is easy.

Friday evening is less good. You're at home by six with nothing particular to do. Around eight you look at your phone and there's a photo in the work chat, eleven people round two tables pushed together, your colleague in the middle laughing. You feel a drop in your stomach, and it isn't relief. You should have been there. You tell yourself you'll go to the next one.

On the fridge is an invitation to a friend's fortieth, three weeks on Saturday. You haven't replied yet. When you look at it the weight starts up again.

I'll use a few terms throughout. The dread is the nervousness that builds in the days and hours before an event. The excuse is the message that gets you out of it. The relief is what you feel in the minutes after sending it. The evening in is what you get in exchange. Props are the things you do to get through an event when you do go, such as arriving late, keeping hold of your phone, or staying next to the one person you know. And the going-over is what happens afterwards, when you lie in bed replaying what you said.

The habit has some regular features. This list is my own observation and not a research finding.

You wanted to go, at least at first. This isn't the same as refusing things you've no interest in.

The dread arrives early and grows. It's often worse on the Wednesday than it would be at the door.

The excuse is usually false, and you feel bad about that too.

The relief is strong and short. The regret comes later and lasts longer.

And it gets harder each time. A year ago the leaving drinks would have been mildly uncomfortable. Now they seem close to impossible.

Try one thing before reading on. Write down the last ten things you were invited to, large or small. Next to each, put what you replied, and the real reason if you said no or cancelled. For the ones you missed, add a word for how the evening in felt. If most of your refusals had honest reasons and the evenings in were good, you may not need this book. If the real reason was mostly nerves and the evenings were mostly flat, read on.