You’re standing next to the punch bowl, wondering who ever thought the paper straw was ever a good idea as you pull a bit of soggy cardboard from your teeth.
That’s when she walks in–and she’s absolutely dazzling. Her silken hair is perfectly swept. Her wardrobe is all one-of a kind (vintage pieces she can’t for the life of her remember where from). The air seems to expand around her; you can smell her floral perfume from your place next to the bowl of Beach Breeze. “At last,” you sigh.
The muse has arrived.
Of course she was three hours late. That you know. She hadn’t even rsvp’d, leaving you to wonder if one pimento cheese ball was really enough for 18 people. 17? Sure. But 18 was a gamble. Last time she didn’t rsvp, she never showed, and you were left wondering whether or not to save two tablespoons worth of the soggy orange goo in a tupperware.
And then there are all the parties she’s not at. That you don’t know. The ones, like your previous soiree, that waited and waited for her arrival, the club soda turning flat with every passing minute. There are hundreds strung across the city, all holding their breath as she walks through your door. Of course she told them she’d come. She always says she’ll come in that light-hearted sort of way that leaves you wondering if it’s true when you meet her on the street.
The reality is, she can’t be depended on. Its not her fault (mostly), its just her nature. In truth, it feels a little unfair to pin the hopes and dreams of your own endeavors in her lovely hair. It was you who decided to throw the party, not her. This is your responsibility alone.
So roll up your sleeves. Toss the paper straw and get your feet to the dance floor, where the real work of any good party happens. Que the music, get in the zone, and get going.
There’s work to do.
Rock n roll,