I Am the Queen of Canceled Plans

Some think that chronic bailing is rooted in depression or a manifestation of social anxiety. Others say it’s a narcissist’s way of exerting control. I would say “nah” to all of that hoo-ha and instead turn the issue around and ask this: Why do so many people believe that anyone who would rather spend their time alone is flawed? I’m not a hermit, a couch potato or antisocial by any measure. I’m simply capable of enjoying my own company and often want to do so.

As a writer, I tend to live inside my head — and I like it there. I’ve never found it too lonely or too noisy, for that matter. I’ve realized that socializing with others requires a lot of energy that I don’t always have. In my low-social-energy case, I make plans because I think I should make them, and those plans sound like fun at the time they are made. But when the “day of” rolls around, I often find that my tank of social energy is just running on empty. And so I cancel on you.

Another factor worth mentioning: I’m somebody who has always wanted — make that needed — lots of sleep. I am definitely a rooster, not a night owl. As a result, my track record for showing up to daytime plans is generally better than making it to evening events. I rise with the sun and start to get ready for bed most nights when others are watching the local evening news.

I love early-morning walks. I’d pick watching a sunrise over a sunset any time. And in a previous life, I’m pretty sure I was that bird who captured all the worms. So if you really want to see me, let’s plan to meet for a hike at 6 a.m. I can assure you I will be there.

But let’s talk for a minute about the obligation I feel — the “should” part — of making plans in the first place. Society pressures us to actively pursue social relationships and engage in activities that involve others. Studies that say human interactions are vital to our mental, emotional and even physical health are waved under our noses. This is a case of one size not fitting all.

Why can’t people accept that some of us are perfectly happy being in our own company? We weren’t all born to be social butterflies, and there is nothing wrong with those of us who aren’t. We don’t need fixing — or etiquette rules — to ensure we don’t burn the butterflies’ wings.

No, I don’t enjoy disappointing anyone. I understand that in committing to getting drinks after work, I may have stopped you from making plans with someone else. Then again, maybe you quietly thanked me for canceling because you, too, aren’t all that interested in office chitchat or spending $20 on a cocktail at the local watering hole.

To quote Popeye the Sailor Man, “I (y)am what I (y)am.” Fortunately for me, my closest friends are able to look past my regularly postponing our weekly stay-in-touch Zoom dates that started during the pandemic and have morphed into a very fun, wine-fueled gabfest. They know I have value as a friend and that my virtues exceed my need to remain a homebody. They also understand that my canceling plans has nothing to do with my affection and respect for them.

But of course there are people who will no longer schedule anything with me. I think I may have been permanently banned from joining any book club in the greater Los Angeles area because I was always a no-show. It’s OK. I prefer reading books to talking about them. I also prefer watching movies without commentary. Again, it’s that alone thing.

And lest you think me a total cad, I am also the friend who will be there when you most need her. Count on me to visit you in the hospital, armed with flowers, books for you to read, and yes, a pint of the fancy ice cream we both love. I will cook you a pot of my grandma’s handed-down chicken soup recipe that cures whatever ails you (but sorry, I still won’t give you the recipe).

I wouldn’t dream of missing your kids’ graduations, a family wedding, a birthday-that-ends-in-zero party. My shoulders are available 24/7 to cry on as needed. But I just need you to not take it personally when what I really want to do is hang out with the dog.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.