I went to a party.
(I know, I’m going to blog about that? Really? Bear with me.)
In my old life, going to a party would be the last thing I wanted to do. Particularly a party where I knew no one except the host.
In my old life, I just wanted to be home with my partner and children. Quiet. The last thing I’d want to do after a long week at work was go out. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to people I didn’t know. Going to a movie with my brother was about as rambunctious as it got.
The other day, my new friend Tim invited me to his birthday party. With grown ups. On a Saturday evening. And for the first time in a long, long time, I actually wanted to go to a party.
My partner and I had a date scheduled for that evening. So after a lovely dinner with my sweetie, I dropped him at home to deal with kid bedtime (thank you, Martin!), and I went out.
Me. Out.
I had a moment’s hesitation when Tim opened his door and I realized for real, “Oh shit, I don’t know anyone!”
Awhile back, I introduced myself at a coaching class and told the other students how excited I was to hear their stories. I felt the same way walking into that party. So many stories to plumb. Such fun.
I met the male, real-life equivalent of Lisbeth Salander; I met a new BFF and made fun of her drunk date with her; I pretended that I still speak German with a bunch of Germans. Of course I flashed the party (my partner’s response to that was “How old ARE you?!”). When I got stuck, I walked over to my lovely gracious host and asked him whom I should talk to next.
I stayed for four hours. Way past my bedtime. My back was KILLING me from standing for so long. But I left happy, happy, happy.
In my new life, I love parties.
