or; the failed dance party attempt
So . . . I know I do a lot of bandstanding about how great it is to be single, but it's starting to catch up to me. Maybe I'm not as bad about it here, but in the real world, I'm always extolling the advantages to being single. (Mostly because I can't seem to keep a stable relationship . . .)
This weekend, I was invited by a couple of friends of mine (the sensational Quilter twins) to a dance party they were having at their house. I promised I'd go . . . mostly under duress. There was going to be someone there that they really wanted me to meet. (I'd really like to be dating either one of them, because I'm pretty much floored by both, just for different reasons, but they're both currently taken. Dammit!) I'm all about meeting new people, so I decided that I'd put in my effort, and maybe something good would come of it.
So I set about the gathering of a cadre of friends to go with me. I didn't want to go by myself. Then I realized that I don't really have a cadre of friends to gather about. Ever since returning home from my mission, I've found it increasingly difficult to find a group of people to blend in with. I'm not the best in groups; I get disaffected by the whole situation. Consequently, I have a lot of friends, but I never really do anything with big groups of people, mostly just one-on-one or in groups of three or four. That's just how I've always preferred things.
So what friends I was able to get in contact with were all out of town for the weekend. (Curse my impulsive friend base . . . they were all out of town whilst I had to work!) It seemed I was destined (read: cursed) to attend the dance party alone.
I drove up there, fashionably late (the twins had told me that April, the girl they wanted me to meet, would be arriving tardy) full of fear and trepidation. Finally, I wrenched myself from the quiet solitude of my car and walked up the stairs to the party.
It was as I expected. The Quilter twins are really young – 19 – and so most of the people they invited were 17-19. I was the grandpa of the party. And it was an acute feeling. I futilely searched for my twins, finally finding them out in the mass of dancing bodies. I said, “Well, here I am. I promised I'd make an appearance, and I'm appearing.”
Ashlee told me that April wouldn't be able to come, that she was sick. I was crestfallen. I decided, then and there . . . to hell with this, I'm going to find me someone and dance, dammit!
And I failed. Miserably.
Everyone was there with their groups of friends. I was the odd man out; without a gaggle of groupies, I was the odd duck.
So I danced with each of the twins, chatting with them, wishing either was single and that I could have a chance with them, and promptly disappeared to the quiet, lonely solitude of my trusty Hyundai.
I drove home, my loneliness feeling the most acute it has in ages. I was longing for someone to be there with me, someone to talk to, to hold, and there was no one.
Arrgh. Welcome to the life of San Chonino. The saint of women's underwear and I can't even get a girl to dance with me!