My brother has a company holiday party coming up, and he’s super single. What does this mean? This means I have a shot at attending an extravagent holiday party where the alcohol flows as freely as the birds fly, and the food tables continue for as far as the eye, especially my weaker one, can see.
Sadly, I apparently am not guaranteed the position as his plus one. “I don’t want to take my sister,” he replied, when I recommended myself. “I don’t want to be the guy that takes his sister every year. Plus the really attractive guys keep hitting on you. It’s so annoying.” I might have added in that last part.
“But I’m fun,” I countered. “Who could be more fun than me?!” This is a rhetorical question, because the obvious answer is: no one. No one could be more fun than me.
“You’re not coming.” He ended the conversation.
A couple weeks went by, and he was concerned about who to put down as his registered plus one. I saw an opening: “Oh, put my name down. This way, if you get a date, you can say I was your back up when she sees my name. If your date sees another girl’s name, she’ll assume she was the backup. Then you’re in trouble for the night.”
“Good point,” he nodded. And so, step one was complete – yes, I am officially registered.
Last night, he took some ballroom dancing class offered by his company. He had a pretty good time, and he was excited about the dancing and wanted to show me some of his new dances. I knew what I had to do. I had to ballroom dance better than ever before in my life to prove as a formidable dancing partner who could, say, oh I dunno, maybe help him show off his smooth dancing moves during a big party, like, maybe a company holiday party.
Did I deliver?! Of COURSE I delivered! One and half years of ballroom dancing was not wasted on me! And sure enough, he said, “Okay if you come with me to the party we should practice a routine for the dance floor; it’ll be really cute.” My eyes lit up.
“IF!” he said.
“BEFORE!” I heard.
Wish me luck, blog. I’ve already picked out my dress.