It has been recently brought to my attention that public is public and private is private and any theorized hybrid of the two is, at best, an urban legend. I find this upsetting, but in a duel to the death between my inner attention whore and my inner wallflower, I think we all know who wins.
Party on, Garth.
Speaking of parties, I went to one last night. The first day of my 26th year was marked by vegan hot dogs and a bottle of blonde hair dye. The hair is more ‘Bubble Yum’ than ‘Marilyn Monroe’ but I’ll take it. The vegan hot dogs were grilled and eaten with copious amounts of ketchup.
“I don’t play well with hyper-competitive people,” I said, referring to board games, which was the topic of conversation at the moment. We were sitting on metal folding chairs and drinking moscato in the yard. “I’m just the least competitive person in the world.”
“Are you competitive about anything?” he asked me.
I thought for a moment and then decided that the answer was no.
This friend and I have a mild and silly ongoing flirtation, based primarily on the fact that we are usually the only two single people in the room. But later in the night, a second single woman joined our group. She was funny and pretty and interesting and, more significantly, there was only one single dude in the room and she was swarming in for the kill before she’d fully set down her purse.
I thus learned, to my simultaneous amusement and disgust, that I have a competitive streak after all.
One of my earliest memories in life is a sock hop that I attended on a Girl Scout camping trip. I must have been six- or seven-years-old. The retreat organizers made the foolish decision of hiring a very cute boy (who seemed about 27 at the time, but was probably 12) to DJ our darling little dance. It was an instant infatuation and one that I, predictably, shared with the entire group of 200 or so other girls in the room.
The girls swarmed him and this time I don’t mean it figuratively. In my memory (which is, of course, colored by time and my exaggerated view of literally everything), I was the only girl who didn’t mob the stage. Even at six-years-old, my reaction to sexually aggressive women was one of cowed retreat.
Aside from the second grade sock hop flashback, last night was a lovely mix of good people, good food, and good music, some of which came from guitars and pianos that I could reach out and touch. There are several people in my life right now who I find that I like and respect more each time I see them and, last night, I got to share airspace with several of them. One of the things that makes life worth living, in addition to dark chocolate and trumpet solos, is the notion that people can surprise you in beautiful and meaningful ways.