I get the same question at every cocktail event. When I kindly wave off a cater waiter circling with a platter of speared meats, a well-meaning person will say:

"Aren't you going to eat?"

No! The answer is no! I am not going to eat light bites at a cocktail party. Perhaps I would eat the light bites if held captive by international criminals like in "Bel Canto," but that's about it. And it's not because I am some waifish diet bird who mustn't be witnessed consuming carbs.

Au contraire, I will consume kilocalories when I can sit with utensils and a substantial vessel for said food. If a chair and a plate is not an option, no sweat. I will leave the party hungry and rot in my car, squirming in a fussy formal outfit while hoovering an Arby's Classic and a Diet Coke. Actually, I did this last night.

No, thank you, to that bacon-wrapped date oozing goat cheese, for I am teetering on high heels in a grassy knoll trying to navigate a gust of wind. No, please, I will not wedge a business card from an actuary named Keith between my plastic cup of white wine and a dripping satay skewer. I will politely decline to gnaw flesh from a coconut shrimp while asking a stranger, "And what is it like trading equities?"

The fall is peak fundraiser and holiday party season, so perhaps I'm feeling assaulted with passed hors d'oeuvres, bombarded by lettuce cups, pressured to consume countless mushroom caps in engineered social settings.

No shade to hardworking and creative caterers, none at all. If there were no light bites at a cocktail party? The townsfolk would talk for days. And I know I'm in the minority; most people will suplex an orphan for a complimentary seared scallop.

My issue is the mechanics. Attendees of cocktail parties are there to mingle and make connections, which is awkward to start. One must chat for exactly 6.7 minutes before saying, "Will you excuse me?" One must then find the next small group to unnaturally join, repeating this exercise until one's social battery begins to flag, at which point one must seek the bathroom to lean alone against the sink.

Then you add in the acrobatic nibbles, victuals designed for ease that somehow never feel easy.

Why are the light bites always a little too large? How am I supposed to unhinge my jaw to accommodate a Rubenesque arancini while saying, "Originally, I am from Cleveland"?

Why do the light bites have to be on a stick? What am I supposed to do with a soggy skewer while meeting the director of an organization to help one-winged birds? Does the stick get folded into the nearest cocktail napkin along with the shrimp tails? Only for the napkin to burst open on the high-top sheathed in one of those elastic tablecloths that look like MC Hammer pants?

Why is a tiny black plastic plate so humiliating?

What if I pop the mac and cheese fritter in my mouth and hate it? What if it's filled with surprise dill pickle relish, and I'm engaged in a chat with the CEO of the restaurant group that made the pickle cheeseball?

How am I to know if my lip gloss is covered in flakes from the miniature Thai spring roll, if my teeth are loaded with basil chiffonade from the caprese salad stack, if my cheeks are splattered with aioli from the Triple Aioli Bomb?

Oh, God, you want me to slurp tuna tartare from a wide-mouth spoon? In front of Keith?

Have you tasted the freedom of hot curly fries in the still night drive-thru?

Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on X or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

Photo credit: Kelly Jean at Unsplash