The Dance, chapter 1: Let's get this new year started

Instead of stalling out every time I contemplate the charm that was my completed New Year's Eve story, I shall break it into chapters. Installments. Much more manageable. When it's all rewritten, I'll put it together.

Going to the Dance, mixed metaphor style

One of my resolutions for 2010 is to open the door for what's next, relationship-wise. There are several avenues, yes, and one of them includes Single Adult activities. Church-sponsored activities. I've been a little bit afraid to attend a dance, but decided that New Year's Eve was the time to rip off the bandaid.

As I was getting ready, I realized that the strangest/hardest part about preparation for this dance was that I was by myself. All of my previous dating prep and socializing was done in the company of other women. When I was a teenager and when I was a college student, I got ready with roommates, friends or sisters. I clustered with those same ladies at tables or in foyers or in cars. That camaraderie of women was an essential part of the socializing experience ... last time.

But on Thursday, it was just me and Lexei, my gray cat. I couldn't decide if I should wear the black dress with a red velvet top or a skirt and blouse. I asked Lexei, but since she only opened one eye, I wasn't sure that she got a really good look. I went with the skirt. Really, I went with a look I liked to call Erin Jane:
Mary Jane shoes - check (decided to save the boots for a worthy event. Thought this could be that kind of evening, but wasn't sure. In hindsight, very glad I didn't pull 'em out.)
Pale stockings - check
Dangly earrings - check
Vanilla-scented lotion - check
Sparkly lip gloss - check
                                    ... and eye liner, check, in honor of the festivities!

(My driver license reads Erin Jane. They cut off the Ls from my middle name Janell. I guess Erin Janell Hill Littlefield contained too many letters.)

I had to force myself to get in my vehicle and drive to Houston. I had several invites to other activities, all of them located within my comfort zone, but Resolved Erin has a strong grip, and she bossed me into the driver's seat. I listened to The Transfiguration of Vincent, Becca's 80s compilation CD, The Crane Wife by the Decemberists and my own summer 2009 mix, which contains a healthy dose of Spoon, They Might be Giants, and "We Will Rock You." The music helped and made me think that I was headed somewhere hip, somewhere pulsing, somewhere hopping. All of that was a total facade, of course. The dance was none of those boot-worthy things.

Elizabeth texted me right before I arrived at the dance, and her words were so sweet and confidence-boosting that I almost cried. This single gal couldn't ask for better friends! Elizabeth's husband even offered a few complimentary words in a post-text, and boy, I walked out of the van and into the stake center with a swagger in my new-to-me CK Mary Janes.

During the drive, as the music played, I was thinking of future blog posts. Of course! The metaphor that I was chewing on was musical chairs. After watching Graham limp away from his classmates during a 3rd grade musical chairs game before Christmas ("What is this game, Mom?" he asked in a stunned voice, after being shoved to the floor. "I thought we were walking."), it was on my mind. Dating after divorce is a bit like musical chairs, cause however you look at it, there are more people than chairs. Let's just be honest about that. Divorce itself felt like musical chairs. At more than one point, I looked around at other couples, friends, associations, the like, and wondered where my chair had gone. I felt like the music stopped, and I was the one left standing.

It's a great metaphor, isn't it?

And then, when I entered the balloon-flanked doors, it became a reality. People were actually playing musical chairs, and I joined in. Resolved Erin made me. Regular Erin realized just why her nine year old son doesn't know the rules of this game. She doesn't like it.

Musical chairs creates a dilemma inside me, a battle between my hyper competitive side and my super polite side. I don't want to be rude and I cannot stand to lose. In musical chairs, winning means shoving, and I didn't want to bare my teeth just yet. What's a gal to do?

Make it to the final two with a sheepish grin and shrug and elbows at the ready.

I kept smiling awkwardly at the people who stumbled away from the contested chairs, and did a bunch of shoulder shrugs when there was no spot to sit on for the person next to me, as though I were apologizing for being so quick. I'm sure it fooled no one, but it was part of my Say Yes to SA approach.

I said "Yes!" when they announced sushi making class too. The woman teaching the class had lots of experience, as she told us. She regularly teaches sushi making at nursing homes in the Houston area and had volunteered to come to our evening.  I did tell her I was vegetarian, again kind of sheepishly, and she was cool with it. "Oh, no problem," she said. "We're using imitation crab, so you'll be fine."  (I stuck to the cucumbers and carrots.) I wish she hadn't used triple-ply nori, as it is impossible to gnaw through planks of seaweed gracefully.  I finally gave up on my sushi roll and tossed it, soy sauce dripping down my chin.

One fellow, probably in his late 40s, had a handsome face. He looked a bit like Dr. House, I thought. I don't watch that show, but I think Hugh Laurie is a nice looking man. The Hugh Laurie look-alike was in my sushi making class, and I spotted just his face through a doorway. "Oh, there are some nice looking people here," I thought to myself. Then I entered the room, just as he removed his long black cloak and tied on a long black apron. (Who brings his own apron to a dance?) Instead of listening to the sushi teacher's instructions ("Coat the spatula with rice vinegar, then add the cream cheese!"), he raced ahead and assembled his tray before the rest of us had added pickled ginger. Then Dr. House started speaking in Japanese. Did I mention his fedora? Black, to match the cloak and apron.

Coming up next time .... The other single ladies, OR Erin tries to make a friend