the french exit

tongue-in-check...more or less

Let others linger, mired in long goodbyes,
Those dreadful drawn-out affairs.
I opt for something far more wise.

Last week, as the third endless day of a mandatory work “summit” ground on, I could feel my ability to remain engaged dwindling with each passing PowerPoint slide. The breakout sessions that once sparked lively discussion now triggered fantasies of the great outdoors. Conversations over catered lunches, once substantive, degenerated into staticky noise.

I found myself retreating inward, John Barrymore's quote rattling around my mind - "Whenever I get this urge to feel sorry for myself, I remember how good I used to be able to leave a room." In my earlier years, I prided myself on executing the perfect exit from dull obligations (much to Southern society’s horror). But now, confined by the relentless demands of workplace convention, that past talent seemed unfathomable. Nothing could camouflage my checked-out condition as I longingly eyed the exit signs.

When the day formally concluded, the others dawdled, the usual small talk and handshakes. But I could bear it no longer. Quietly, having depleted my final reserves of polite conduct, I began backing away from the cluster of chatter. The only escape appeared to be an act of soul renewal — a brazen French exit from the proceedings.

---

To me, there is nothing better than slinking off into the night.

The niceties have been observed, genuinely — pleasantries exchanged, compliments paid with a deft touch. I've made my rounds, filling the silence with conversation's dance. A few appetizers have provided fortification, their flavors lingering. Smiles bestowed liberally, a few laughs sparked amid the civil murmurs.

But I can feel the pretense waning, the fatigue of etiquette's rituals setting in. My role here is played out. To dally further would be an insincere performance, one more cycle around the room an agony of hollowness. No, it's time to depart this spectacle on a high note.

As one of the Immutable Laws of the Spirits goes: When it’s over, it’s over.

And I’ve always respected endings.

For waiting at home is heaven — a warm bubble bath, a eucalyptus-perfumed oasis. And a whinny body of fur with a wagging nub and a head in need of scratches. Simple pleasures to realign mind and body, solitary indulgences infinitely more alluring. I need no protracted farewell, no final accolade.

So, quietly, almost furtively, I begin tiptoeing towards the exit.

With each step, the prattle recedes, the air grows fresher and lighter. My jacket is retrieved with silent efficiency. In one seamless motion, I've transitioned from shimmering ornament to secret agent, departing unseen. The night outside beckons, its velvety embrace both liberating and conspiratorial.

Soon I'll be submerged in cleansing heat to surface anew. But for now, that first breath of cool night air is the sweetest delight — proof that I've accomplished the perfect unnoticed exit. To glide into rapturous solitude, escaping society's gilded cage...ah, what satisfaction could be finer?

The French exit triumphs again!

Jordan K Lancaster via Instagram

Tell me: When was the last time you scurried out, excited for the comfort of your home?

PS— Writing proved more difficult than usual this week…thank you for bearing with me as I experiment with different voices. I adore you all.

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