I was going to blog about mustaches and dishware today, but I’ve been getting requests to blog about New Year’s Eve. Ok, one request. But compared to the no requests I usually get, this is a lot. So back to New Year’s Eve.

Captain picks me up at my place. I’m dressed in a little party dress and I’m lugging my big pink overnight bag, mainly sneakers and my security blanket.

We head into Captain’s condo building. We bump into some of his neighbors. Captain introduces me. The woman exclaims,

“She’s beautiful.”

Thank you and hi I’m right here.

She points at the big pink bag Captain is carrying, his favorite, and asks him,

“What’s in there?”

I pipe up,

“That’s my overnight bag.”

“Oh.”

She seems to be waiting for more details.

We head up to Captain’s place, drink as much champagne as we can and we’re off to Symphony Hall and the dance floor.

We’re supposed to have the buffet dinner there, but we can’t find it. It’s not in the main hall. We head downstairs to an odd, strangely quiet room. I take a couple bites. Not good. I force some more down. I need dancing energy and something to absorb the champagne.

Captain declares,

“This feels like dinner at the nursing home.”

We zip back to the dance floor. It’s packed. There are couples there younger than us. They’re with their parents. We put our new skills to work. Our teacher should’ve been there to tell us what dance to do to what song. Some people knew how to dance, but plenty were doing the junior high sway. We did a combo. A little swaying and a little dancing. I even got some spins in.

Overall a giant success. No one stepped on my feet and I only stepped on one person and it wasn’t Captain. Next year more dance lessons and eat dinner somewhere else.

Captain remarks,

“I’ve done things this year I never thought I’d do.”

And he’s promised to take me to a demolition derby, so then we’ll be even.