Oh, hey. It's nine o'clock. The music just stopped. There is a god after all, and its name is Silence.
A couple nights ago, I went out on a warm summer's evening to mix and mingle with a crowd of women at a... I guess you would call it a club? over in North Portland off of MLK near Legacy Emmanuel Hospital. It seems every old storefront in town is being renovated, even in the (former) ghetto. This club was up a steep flight of carpeted stairs from a bar/restaurant, where a bunch of trendy 30-somethings were sitting at little round sidewalk tables, looking oh so hip. I skittered by in my old blue Levis and long floppy olive green rayon men's overshirt, hoping it would conceal my muffin top and wondering what the hell I was doing so far from the Love Shack, going to a club to hang out with a bunch of women. Jeez.
I don't like women. Not groups of women, anyway, and a club full of drinking older gals laser-focused on networking the crap out of each other is just plain frightening. The air reeked of perfume and estrogen. Some wore hats and cocktail dresses. Who were they dressing up for? There were only two men that I could see: the sound board guy and the club guy who moved around tables and checked the lighting as he nervously looked over his shoulder at the women. As if the herd could bolt at any moment. The noise level made it impossible to hold a conversation. I tried, honestly. I roamed and mingled, sipping a salty soda water with lime, wandering from table to table (there were no chairs), barging in on conversations with no shame, trying out my creaky elevator pitch and listening to others breeze through theirs, thinking this is so stupid.
I don't care anymore. You know why? Because I finally figured out that all these frantic, frothing, networking women are just like me: broke, desperate, and on the edge looking down. Successful women don't network; they are too busy working. Or if they aren't working, they are out with their pals, swilling craft-brewed pale ale and ouzo martinis at the trendiest watering hole in the Pearl District. Someplace I wouldn't dare go, even if I knew where it was. Secret handshake and all that.
The music has resumed. I knew it was too good to be true. There is no god called Silence. Pestilence, maybe, but not Silence. Sigh.
I eventually sat down on a red velvet-cushioned bench along the wall of the club and watched the hordes of females buzzing around each other like colorful bees swarming the hive. Pretending they were taking effective action. Maybe they were, and I'm the one who didn't get it. After a while, a young woman came over and sat next to me. Yay, another introvert. We started talking. It was quieter there on the periphery, and I found out she was an arborist and landscape designer—a refreshing departure from the wellness coaches, personal change catalysts, jewelry sellers, and multilevel marketing distributors that I'd met during my attempts to hobnob. We exchanged cards and best wishes before we escaped down the stairs and out into the warm evening.
In spite of the strange interlude which seems to have commandeered my life, I find things to be grateful for. Besides showing up for networking, somehow I have continued to exercise intermittently, eat organic and local, mostly, and get enough sleep. I've managed to scrape together coins to do laundry. I've somehow kept the bird feeder filled and the litter box clean. I've reached a cease-fire with the ants in the kitchen; they know what happens when they cross the line into my territory, and in return for taking no prisoners around the sink, I'm happy to give the occasional passenger a ride from the kitchen to the bathroom, with the couch the final destination. If they bite my neck, the gloves come off. Those are the rules.
So mostly, I'm trundling through these strange days feeling a bemused mix of hope and despair. If it weren't so ghastly watching my savings evaporate, these would be the best days of my life. I try not to think about it too much. I just keep updating my website, making my plans, and hobnobbing with monstrous crowds of women.
