One of my friends (who has a rockin’ view of the Space Needle -where the fireworks are in Seattle on New Years) decided to have a party last night, which I was pretty excited about.
I don’t know if it is the fact that I can be a little controlling, or that it has been a way for me to stay inside my comfort zone, or if I’ve just been lazy, but I usually play hostess and plan on having people over at my place. There is certainly something to be said of not having to worry about finding a cab or a bus to get home, and cleaning up after everyone is totally worth it to me. That, and I like being the hostess. I like providing food and beverages and fun.
So I was excited about this party, but also a little nervous. I went to a birthday party in October, but otherwise I haven’t been to a legit party in ages.
How does this work again?
Bring something delicious, chat with strangers, and hopefully meander home? Yes. Ok. That doesn’t sound so hard.
The best part, though, is that this friend and I met at a local bipolar support meet-up group, and the first hour of the party (with all those fun introductory questions by strangers) the question inevitably came up several times: how do you two know each other?
We both himmed and hawed, smiling, until we were alone in the kitchen. She didn’t want to compromise my introductions by adding “bipolar” to it without my consent, and I was doing the same for her. As soon as we both realized we were both completely unphased by the prospect of making our shared disorder common knowledge, we let fly our awkward (yet amazing) story of how we met.
Do you know those moments when you are going to a new class, or eating lunch in a crowded room, or at a party and you instantly see the one “cool” person in the room that you somehow click with immediately? I love those moments, I savor them, because some of the best friends I’ve had in my life I’ve met this way. That’s the way we met. It just happened to be at a bipolar support group.
The party was awesome, the best I have been to in ages. I left feeling better than when I arrived, content and mildly optimistic.
The buses were beyond crazy yesterday, and on the way home from the party I decided that even though there was a distinct fear in me that someone could fall on me or vomit on me at any moment, I like riding on a bus full of contented drunk people. The bus was packed so even the standing room was filled, but somehow these inebriated folks felt it necessary to mingle through the bus (while it was moving), holding on for dear life on those little stabilizing loops above ones head while doing so. The result was both ethereal and comical, as our bus turned into a bottle of champagne. The people, like bubbles, seemed to float up and down the aisle, swirling and swaying to their own rhythms in the silence of the early hours of 2012.