This may sound strange, but there seems to be is a part of me that is utterly without courage. It exists as a deep dent in my personality. Like a broken wrist to an Olympic athlete, it has the power to pull me off course, to drag down the all-I-can-be desire for my own life. Maybe it’s a remnant from childhood, a withering emotional shyness that seems so wildly out of place. It’s definitely something I’ve always wanted to overcome. It may sound silly to you, but I’m still bothered by it.

I can’t give a party. The following fears overwhelm me before I can even get started. “I’m not important enough.” “Who would come?” “I shouldn’t spend the money.” “This or that will go wrong.” I get so hung up on the details that . . . you get the picture.

In addition, even going to a party is a stress maker for me. “Well, if they would invite me, it can’t be much of a party.” “Maybe if I arrive late they won‘t notice me.” “It takes too long to get dressed.” And sometimes I make sure it does. “I’ll forget people’s names.” My mother not only forgot names, she practiced forgetting them. “Where’s the wall? Maybe I’m wearing the same color.” All the insecurities and insufficiencies of early childhood seem to show up when I’m standing in a crowd. Because I was tall even as a child, my father put me in school at age four when everyone else was five. I missed one-fifth of everyone else’s learning experience. Socialization was not a highly developed family trait, you see. Stardom was easy, being comfortable in a crowd was not.

Then a small miracle occurred. I turned 75. And a little birdie inside chirped “CELEBRATE!” This time it was a command. Do it or die. Well, not really. In truth, the inner message was so forthright and clear that I went forth promptly for the next two weeks, concentrating on this party. I prepared, made lists, oh, did I make lists. Three hours was spent on who should meet whom. Invitations were crafted, colored, and worded with the utmost care. Musicians were sought out. A perfect pianist for one end of the house, a classical banjo player, as a mood lifter, for the other end, out in the garden. A classical banjo player? Not easy to find, but that’s what I wanted. The food must be catered. After all this was a real party, so it had to be presented with effortless brilliance. I’d never done this before. No wonder I was on pins and needles, gasping all the way to the final moment. What’s wrong with me, I wondered? Was I attempting the impossible, to be defeated by self-doubt, the finality of “I’ll never do this again?"

Five hours before the first guest was to arrive, I was so stressed out that I paused for a moment to open a little gift sent to me by Laren Stover from MAC Cosmetics. The distraction of those little pots of rouge, tubes of gold, and lipstick temptations successfully quieted my nerves. That evening, the event and all that had been foretold by me turned into...the party of a lifetime! Everyone agreed when I spontaneously said, “This is the best party I’ve ever been to, the best party I’ll ever go to.” Indeed it was, in every way, as many people concurred by phone the next day.

It turned out to be a true celebration for everyone and not just a gathering to praise Julie. It was a party for those who had participated in my life and given me so much from their lives. It was, happily, a celebration about the people I loved.