The decision

This chapter asks you to decide something. It comes late because at the start it would have sounded like being told to try harder. By now you've seen what cancelling does. The relief lasts an hour and is paid for over the weekend and at the next invitation. You've seen that the dread comes from rehearsing, that your nerves mostly don't show, and that props and inward attention are what make evenings go badly. And you've seen that the difficulty you feel now comes from the avoiding you've done recently.

Here's the rule I'd suggest. Put it in your own words if you like.

When I've been invited to something and the only reason to say no is nerves, I say yes, I go, and I stay at least an hour.

It has five parts, and each answers a chapter.

I sort the invitation honestly. If I'd want to go were I sure of being comfortable, it's nerves, and I go. If I wouldn't, I decline straight away and truthfully.

I don't cancel. Once I've said yes, the decision is made. The dread on the day isn't new information. I expected it, and it peaks just before the thing it's wrong about.

I arrive early with a plan for the first three minutes. I know who I'll greet, what I'll say, and the three questions I'm carrying.

I stay an hour, with my attention on other people and one prop fewer. After the hour I'm free to go.

I write three facts and a number the same night. I judge the evening from what I wrote down.

It helps to plan for the moments when the habit will try to restart. Peter Gollwitzer and Paschal Sheeran pooled ninety-four tests of plans in the form "when X happens, I'll do Y" and found that they make people more likely to follow through. A plan like this works because you've decided what to do before the difficult moment comes. Three are worth writing down.

When I find myself drafting an excuse, I'll delete it and ask chapter 15's question.

When I catch myself picturing the evening going badly, I'll switch to planning what time I'll arrive and who I'll speak to first.

When I'm at the door and want to turn round, I'll go in, find the host, and start my hour.

I'll be honest about what to expect, and this is my expectation and not a finding. The first two or three events will be hard. The dread will be as strong as ever beforehand, because it's been trained for a long time and one evening doesn't retrain it. You'll feel the nerves when you walk in. You may have a clumsy moment, and the going-over may come for it that night.

What should change first is the evening itself. It ought to get easier after the first twenty minutes, and by the end you may find you don't want to leave yet. The dread beforehand changes more slowly. For most people it shrinks over a run of events, and I can't tell you how many. It may never vanish, and plenty of sociable people feel a flutter before every party for the whole of their lives. They go regardless, and they think of the flutter as part of getting ready.

Start small if you can. Your first event under the rule doesn't have to be the fortieth. A coffee with one friend counts, and so does lunch with two colleagues or half an hour at a neighbour's.