I live in an area that is beautiful in the summer, a region people like to visit. I am not a hostess. Typically, I do not enjoy prolonged social interaction. There are exceptions. The Exceptions know who they are.
I am not a visitor, not a guest, and never an intruder. I will never turn up unexpectedly on your doorstep. I will call first and, if I do, I will invite you to lunch. Dinner is too much of a commitment.
I am the eldest of 6, now 5. As such, there is an assumption that I welcome family visitors. I do not. Uninvited visitors are invaders, insinuating themselves in my private life and eroding cherished free time. I do not care how much DNA we share, it is not acceptable for you to arrive at my door uninvited unless, of course, there has been a death or a romantic heartbreak. If you are over 40, with a broken heart, take yourself to a hotel and call me, we can have lunch, my treat.
It is summer time. People choose to vacation and hope to visit during the busiest time of my work life. It doesn’t matter to them that I am otherwise engaged. I am expected to drop everything, to spend my precious time with them, accused of being insensitive when I say, “I am very busy.”
My sensitivity is intact.
Very busy is a LOT more palatable than the truth, “You are odious and overbearing. I’ve always thought so. Consequently, I will not be clearing my calendar for you.”