There are a lot of rules for throwing a great party

I don’t always follow the rules, but when I do, I follow them religiously.

Trying to make friends, I did what all the experts say: I joined a flag football team, threw a dinner party, downloaded Bumble BFF. Nothing really worked, and I groped around for a while, lonely and frustrated. I even thought about going to church. Eventually, I found my way into a spin studio. It was a pretty unlikely place – a sweat-drenched dark room too loud for conversation, even if I’d had the breath for it (I didn’t) – and yet, after a few months, dozens of sloppy high-fives, and 100 or so classes, the friendships I made there changed my life.

I’d been thinking about celebrations, having read an essay by a dazzling writer-friend Lane Scott Jones, who wrote a piece on throwing herself a party. In her essay, Lane says that “what we celebrate, we incentivize.” I walked away from the piece electrified, jazzed to throw a party of my own, to celebrate the community I’d found in that most unexpected place: the spin studio. To plan the party, I went straight to the experts. And they had, surprisingly, a lot of rules about throwing a party.

I started with Lane’s essay, which builds on the work of Priya Parker, author of “The Art of Gathering.” Parker and Lane build firm guardrails around their gatherings, which seem, at first, like a buzzkill. I don’t want anybody telling me how party! I just wanna vibe, bro!

Parker’s first rule for throwing a party is to define the gathering’s purpose. I don’t love rules, but I also don’t historically throw great parties, so I gave this one a shot. My purpose was to celebrate the people who welcomed me as a helpless newbie at my spin studio. The next rule is to craft a thoughtful guest list that makes people feel uniquely invited, even if (or because) some people don’t make the cut. “If everyone is invited,” Parker writes, “no one is.” The guest list was a tight-knit group of friends from the spin community, folks who’d welcomed me.

The party, of course, would be a spin class. My instructor-turned-friend Karson agreed to teach it. As friends arrived, I handed out handwritten notes, little tokens of gratitude for the welcome they’d offered me. Karson let me pick the music, and the attendees were a who’s who of my most encouraging, loudest-wooing friends from spin class. We sweated and laughed and shouted with joy, and after, borrowed tables from the coffee shop next door and shoved them together on the sidewalk.

We ate tacos from the same spot up the street where my new friends had saved me a seat after many a spin class. We clinked our sparkling waters together in a toast and ate together, breaking tortilla chips and dipping them in salsa. A communion of sorts, which, to me, has always meant welcome – an improbable, yes-you sense of belonging.

I’d asked folks to come prepared with a story about a time when they felt welcome in a new place. As people picked at tacos and reached for more guac, I introduced the conversation prompt. Parker insists that hosts have a duty to uphold the set boundaries of the group. These boundaries protect the group, make people feel safe, provide a space in which people feel comfortable sharing.

I worried over the prospect of introducing a task – forcing conversation instead of just hanging out. But one by one, around the table, people began to share. We heard about beloved teachers who created safe spaces, strangers who said hi on the big scary first day of lab, coaches and neighbors and mentors who showed interest, who listened, who believed in us. People leaned in – eagerly listening, vulnerably sharing.

I was starting to feel very good about my party. The vibes were high and the purpose (a sense of welcome!) was popping off. I had created the perfect guest list! Which is why, when Billy whispered in my ear halfway through dinner, I became supremely annoyed.

“Hey, where can my buddy throw his stuff?” he asked.

He’d invited a friend. And not, like, a mutual friend. Just, like, some guy! I tried to hide my annoyance. “That’s great!” I said, lying.

When the friend (Steven) arrived, he threw his bags inside. Fixed himself a plate. And we pulled up another chair.

As we continued going around the circle, talking about welcome, I held onto my annoyance. I could have reached out, conversationally, explained what we were doing, given him a moment to prep or think. I could have asked Billy to introduce him more fully to the group. I did nothing. I sat there, righteous, with my arms crossed.

When it was his turn, Steven set down his plate, leaned back in his chair, and sighed. “First of all,” he said, a look of deep tenderness in his eyes, “I want to thank you all – for welcoming me here.”

I nearly fell out of my chair, walloped by my own stupidity.

He shared a story about his family moving, about how special it was for his young kids to feel welcomed in a new school. It was beautiful. I tried to listen – guilt and love coursing thick through my veins, my forehead hot with almost-nausea. I thought of the rules of gathering I’d initially hated and had come to worship. I thought of why I hated rules in the first place, the churches I’d grown up in, churches that made up so many rules everyone forgot the greatest rule of all. I’d wanted to protect this little group, this little moment, my little party, and had forgotten its entire purpose.

I ran inside, grabbed a pen and a card. I didn’t know if Steven spelled his name with a “v” or a “ph,” so I took a swing. And I wrote him a note, from the bottom of my growing Grinch heart, welcoming him to this community. Through the window, I could see my people – the same ones who had made space for me – pull him close, another lonely traveler with a seat saved, just for him.

Follow Cog on Facebook and Instagram. And sign up for our weekly newsletter.