The Wrong Attitude To Take To A Party

Night Moves

The Wrong Attitude

To Take To A Party

by M.K. Allison

April 16, 2019

It was a Friday night and I was at a friend’s birthday party in hopes of meeting someone as usual.  I had not wanted to come, but my friend had been insistent that I show up.  I had given up on parties months before and had become pretty content with late night phone chats with girlfriends of similar dateless status on the weekend and movie marathons.

I was currently not involved and hadn’t been for awhile.  I’d had my share of one night encounters, lustful stares across a bar with no follow-up and promises of phone calls that never came.  I’d been filled with hopes of ordinary meetings turning into extraordinary evenings, but nothing happened and now I was exhausted and void of dreams for the ultimate encounter.

However, as I looked around the party from a secluded perch in a dimly lit corner, I suddenly felt encouraged.  It was my kind of party.  The men were in dark suits in splashy ties with sparkling smiles, while the women were dressed corporate smart with expensive hairstyles.  Yet, no soul spoke to me for over an hour, or came near my corner.  And just as I decided to call it an evening, a tall, good looking stranger asked me to dance.  I hadn’t danced in so long that I felt disoriented when I first stepped onto the dance floor.  He seemed to sense my inexperience and guided me gently with strong arms that seemed accustomed to handling a woman.

For the first two songs, he didn’t say a word and I decided right then and there that he wasn’t my type.  I’m always leery of men who don’t glide easy in conversation.

Then after I had completely dismissed any possibility of dancing with him again, he suddenly looked down at me from under his eyes and told me I had beautiful hair.

I blushed without realizing it.  It was the first compliment I’d heard in months.  Of course, I danced again, and this time the music was soft and slow and I was able to get close enough to smell his cologne.  I almost recoiled at the scent.  He smelled more like gardenias and musk blended together.

When the music ended, I dashed with relief off the dance floor in hopes of finding a new dance partner.  He disappeared into the crowd without glancing back at me and I returned to my chair of anonymity in the corner.

Suddenly, the darkened room became ablaze with light and everyone began singing Happy Birthday to the host.  I quickly became very self-conscious about sitting alone, as I jumped up to join in the celebration.  When I looked around the room, it seemed everyone was standing next to someone they were connected to, and at that moment, I knew what it meant to feel isolated in a crowd.

As I watched my friend beaming with happiness at all the well wishes, I noticed my former dance partner on the other side of the table, and when our eyes met, he smiled and the beauty of his teeth made me shiver.  And at that moment, it appeared that he and I were the only two people there without dates.  Suddenly, I didn’t feel so choosey anymore.

When the music came back on, my attitude swiftly changed, and this time instead of retreating back to my corner, I went over to him and asked him to dance.   He seemed pleased and surprised at the same time.  “I thought I wasn’t your type,” he said as we stepped to the music.  “I don’t have a type,” I replied glibly.

“I don’t believe that.  When we danced before, it was very apparent that I was being examined from head to toe.”

I smiled, but I didn’t answer.  I was embarrassed that my thoughts had been so transparent.  As we twirled to the smooth sounds of Luther, I had to chuckle at my own stupidity.   I realized that I was home most weekends alone, because I had a photo in my mind of how my Prince Charming was supposed to be, and my criteria was childish and silly.

When I met a guy, I looked at his shoes for scuff marks, the quality of his watch, his shirt collar, and the condition of his teeth.  His scent was also an important part of the package, and his car could not be more than four years old.  For me, a man’s watch spoke volumes about his style and his attitude about money.  I couldn’t stand to see a guy in a cheap watch.

After spending the rest of the evening with this nice guy who didn’t even have a watch on, I decided to change my attitude and my criteria in my search to find my soul-mate.   When I left the party that night, he walked me to my car, and under the bright street lamp I could see scuff marks on his shoes.  However, I ignored what I saw, and continued writing my phone number down.  When I got in my car, I said a short prayer that he would call.