Weekends are made for cavorting or desperately trying to, and the impending holidays only up the ante with festive spirit, snuggle-worthy weather, and parties, parties, parties. Summer gets all the skin, but it seems to me, winter gets all the romance.
I’d welcome a bit of either at the moment, so I had been looking forward to this weekend’s overlapping party schedule for a couple weeks now.
The weather outside was frightful on Friday, and I found myself half-hoping for a replay of that winter storm a decade ago that brought the entire area to its knees for three or four days. Pickup snowball fights with the neighbors, everyone forced to walk to the grocery store, sledding in the streets without fear of cars. Absolute heaven. It was not to be. The flakes turned back into cold-cold rain and stayed that way.
I worked late, and not having any real plans, grabbed a quick bite to eat at The P__ and ate at the bar solo. It isn’t so much that I can’t find friends to hang with, but more that I’ve decided goddamn it I will learn to be self-sufficient socially. I will go places by myself and chat people up until I get over the awkwardness or it kills me. At dinner, I got a surprise hookup from the bartender because I go for lunch “all the time.” Feeling completely rockstar and twelve dollars richer, I hoofed it up to The L__ to go about breaking even.
Good time, got there before the crowd (weather probably helped), wrote a bit, ran into an old friend about the time I started feeling alone and anxious. By that time, I’d already downed my allotment of whiskey for the evening (two fingers, count ‘em, one, two), and spoken to a couple of strangers. Also, E__, R__’s old girlfriend was drunk (?) and decided she recognized me even though I’ve seen her out at least three times in as many weeks and she hasn’t even given me eye contact. She was flirty, and that was undeniably pleasant, but I couldn’t help wondering whether it was just the booze, or if she was just fishing for a job where I work. Nor could I help not giving anything resembling a flying fuck. Man cannot live on bread alone, but a single good hug once a week from a beautiful woman will certainly improve one’s constitution. She said she’d stop by the office sometime. We’ll see.
Saturday night was T__’s big throwdown. I had a boring company dinner earlier, but had plenty of time to get back and arrive fashionably late. The initial plan was to show up with a few bottles of booze, but I hadn’t bought it yet. Plus, I wanted to stop by C__ anyway, and I hadn’t yet supported their little enterprise, so I bought $50 worth of decadent treat-age (that’s with the friends-and-family-bulk discount) and continued onwards to getting lost in O__ like always.
I showed up and the place was packed just shy of shoulder-to-shoulder. I knew I wasn’t bringing enough to go around and had already been scheming on a plan to use that to my advantage, but this was way more intense a scene than I’d been expecting. The music was pumping pretty loud too, so it made the chances of fomenting cage-matches-for-cupcake contests slim-to-none.
All the same, I guessed correctly that a giant box of highly-alcoholic and highly-fattening desert would make an easy conversation piece. One that I’d only contemplated seriously volunteering to discuss with the ladies, judge that as you may. Before I could even start picking out my first victim, one of the older guests (drop-dead gorgeous and my own age) points at my box and asks “What’s that?” Fool. Right into my trap.
[ed note: Well, not exactly. I don't remember getting to talk to her 
]
With very little warning, the confections were sliced, diced, and out of my hands, and the three women I’d been describing them to as the box left my hands were all standing there in a little half-circle clutching their beverages. A ghost-of-their-conversation-past returned, and in a moment I resisted the very strong urge to go find someone I knew. Instead I stood my ground for a second, and things instantly got a little weird. More than once, I think we all took an awkward sip in unison. That’s when I remembered that these poor things were probably just as shy as I was.
“I’m J__.”
It didn’t go great, but it went. Small talk is hard enough — I didn’t know how to engage them all at once without coming off all, “Which one of you fine honeys wants some of this?” so I did the best I could round-robin. As soon as I got into an exchange with the only one (apparently) able or willing to handle multi-word responses, the others fled for comfortable cover. I’m sure whatever-her-name-was gave them no end of hell for abandoning her there with that strange, dirty, old man.
The dudes standing outside in the smoking section were just as impenetrable — maybe more so. I think they mistook me for some douche because I was still wearing the same jacket from dinner earlier. Jesus. The fucking host was wearing a tie, what you want I should be wearing? Oh wait. I don’t actually care what you think. I’m only joining your looser sausage party out here in the cold to get some breathing room before I jump back into the fray inside.
Later, I had a great conversation with the beautiful, talented, and incredibly successful (soon famous?) owner of a local fashion startup. Make that married, beautiful, talented, and incredibly successful. She too promised to stop by the studio sometime before being dragged (literally) away by someone who I presume was her husband. Once again, it was fantastic until I mused upon what felt genuine and personal and what might be “just business”.
I mingled, I danced, I drank, I made small talk. I went home alone the same way I arrived. On the drive home I sortof made eye contact at an intersection. She looked like she was probably beautiful. We returned our gazes to the light. I always wonder what the other driver is thinking when that happens, especially at 3am.