Why You Should Never Throw a Surprise Party

Surprise parties are a risky little game. Naturally on the perfect world of television sitcoms, they go off without a hitch.

This might be a reality check for some of you, but lemme tell ya: they do not. Not in my experience, regardless of if you’re the recipient or the planner.

ON THE RECEIVING END (this sounds like a little something else, haw haw)

It was my freshman year of college. I was young and naïve. I told my new friends it would be rad if I got a surprise party sometime. But on my actual birthday? Come on.

First off, my actual birthday was a rainy, dreary day the Addams family would rejoice in. I spent my afternoon trudging through a dry reading assignment—and fell asleep. When I awoke, it was time for my birthday dinner. I had chosen a place and everything.

Groggily, I climbed out of bed and dressed myself. My friend texted me, asking if I was ready. Yup, I was ready—for a quiet dinner of thoughtful discussion, maybe.

I lethargically opened the door and was assaulted by punks screaming HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYY!!

My reaction was a bit delayed; after all, I had been sleeping.

“Oh…wow…damn!”

What followed is me trying to get into party mode after I was in quiet, introspective mode. An attendee even told me I looked out of place at my own party.

Point being, surprise party recipients can’t put their party pants on.

ON THE GIVING END (arguably the worse position to be in—we ARE talking about parties, right?)

First I had to kick Harrison out of the apartment.

“I’m having a girls’ night,” I argued.

“Fine,” he said. Later he grudgingly made plans with a friend about 30 minutes away. Whoops.

Within an hour of his departure, the surprise party attendees arrived and we had hastily erected the party décor. I was ready; we were all ready—minus Hairy.

“Harry,” I texted, everyone waiting with baited breath around me. “Come back over. Girls’ night is canceled.”

“I’m hanging with Taylor,” he said.

This wasn’t going to be easy. “Come back, I feel sick,” I pleaded.

“Maybe later,” he said.

I couldn’t cope with an unofficial arrival time. I pulled out the big guns. “I’m vomiting though—I’m having a bad migraine. I need you to bring some Excedrin. We ran out!”

“Ughhh, I’ve been drinking though!” he argued.

By this point I was corresponding with his friend, who sent an LOL and some clarification: “He’s only had two beers!!” (Why was he letting him drink? He was in on this whole operation!)

Taylor was a bump on a log. After dramatic arguing, Harrison finally left. By this point everyone had been over for two hours. Our partiers were not in a party mood anymore. People were yawning.

Shit.

I ran around like a football coach, giving a pep talk and slapping faces, and tried to reinvigorate the party. It slightly worked.

Buuuuut Harrison finally walked in, we yelled "surprise" and all that nonsense. With mouth agape, Harrison happily exclaimed, “LET’S GET DRUNK.”

So not a total loss, especially considering I got engaged at Harry's surprise party (yay alcohol). But was it worth the ulcer? …Well, I guess so.