The POC (or Numbers Eight and Nine)

Several years ago, I received an invitation to the Party of the Century: a New Year's Eve party in the Crossroads with friends, friends of friends, and their friends.  At the time, I wasn't much for staying up all night with people who could drink more and dance better than I...in fact, it might just have been that I wasn't keen to spend the evening with that many people period, drunk, sober, or dancing.  I opted for a more tranquil evening (that I don't regret).  

Time, as they say, gives one perspective.  This year, the perspective was way off.  On the one side was a much too benign evening at my parents;' on the other was the opportunity to people-watch to my little heart's content.  I am a sucker for observing other people's silliness; call it a vice, if you will, but I chose to attend the sixth annual POC (number 8), anyway.  

The night started at the pre-POC, where I met a gal who was in the middle of a project to write and video record a song every day.  As she only had a few hours left of the day, she wanted to record her song at this gathering, so I was able to be a back-up singer for her video about New Year's Eve. Let's just call that "number 9: be a back-up singer in a music video."  Thankfully, no dancing was required.

Upon arriving at the POC, I began to wonder if I had made the right decision to attend.  I am honestly not comfortable in those types of environments, but I was determined to enjoy myself.  I just wanted to find a "quiet" spot where I didn't have to yell in an effort to make small talk with people who were unlikely to remember me in the morning.  I spent some time scoping out the space but became a bit dismayed when there was no where to sit and munch on my olives and cheese.  My feet became so desperate for relief that I twice found myself in the bathroom just for the opportunity to sit.  My luck changed when I discovered the wooden folding chair, which I danced across the floor to a "quiet" nook and found great entertainment watching my friends dance.  When midnight struck, I grabbed my champagne and fellow-wall-holder-upper, and we found ourselves busting some moves we never knew we had in us (sans shoes, of course).  After a couple hours of watching people "dance," we realized that dancing requires very little more than a willingness to move in a quasi-rhythmic pattern.  What the heck; it's a new year.