We are all wallflowers

Some of my friends hate large parties with all that networking and mingling--and in many ways that's what a professional conference is all about. And you sometimes feel like you're back in junior high, lined up against the wall, silently tapping the beat with your thumbs in your pockets. But then you get the chance to:
*Have free Summit beers at receptions sponsored by the New York Review of Books and the Chronicle of Higher Education.
*See old pals like Juliliquoy and Elbee and also Judy. Thanks Julie for flying in!
*Hear people tackle problems and come up with solutions to the same grind you face every day.
*Gossip and unwind over late-night BLTs at Whitey's in Northeast.

At the beginning of the reception at the top of the Guthrie last night, one of my colleagues dropped her drink. The crash was loud and obvious and the facility crew who came in pulling those big yellow mop tubs attracted a lot of attention in that sea of black-clad partygoers. That and the startling crash of glass against marble floors.

Another of my colleagues sympathized and told about the night at a book reading when she tripped on the carpet and fell, spilling herself and her glass of wine in front of all the attendees.

So I shared my story--and I've heard this is a female thing, all of us sharing our like-type stories as a way of listening and empathizing; some say men would just see or hear about the faux pas and say, "Yeah, that sucks." Mine wasn't at a book event but rather at the local bank. My son, who was then five, and I brought in his giant glass pickle jar of pennies to cash in at the teller. And just as I walked into the lobby that busy Saturday morning, I dropped the entire thing. It was just three weeks after 9/11 and every one of the bank employees hit the floor with a look of panic. My son was so embarrassed he just crouched alone out in the vestibule until I had gathered up all the glass and copper coins.

The gig at the Guthrie was not one of those "I could have danced all night" nights, but rather a nice gathering of like-minded souls who are willing to put on their favorite shoes and sport jackets and black dresses and meet and greet strangers and friends alike.

And not a single one of us talked about reality tv tonight, unless you count the Twins.

While I was away I had a message from the family that the kid hit 3 for 3 with two singles and a double in the Minndakota Classic Tourney, and when I walked in the door 14 hours later from the time I left this morning, he's got his report card propped up against the wildflowers on the dining room table. And I think maybe that is the best part of this long professional day; I get to be in that world and still come home to a loving family who leaves out a little something as a good night wish: a note by the phone--"Hope you had a nice day"--and the last Special K bar, just for me.

Wallflower, 2004
Oil & Pastel on Canvas
by Allison Hill