Sitting in my favorite dive bar on my birthday.  Can’t really ask for more.  Of course, it’s my party so I could also cry if I want to.  I didn’t expect anyone to come out because expectation is the only source of disappointment. But I did hope, just a little, that the one  guy I’ve been chatting with for weeks would show up.  It was a silly hope.  “No reason to let that get me down,” I say to myself.  I prefer a smaller, more intimate crowd at my shows anyway.  Right? 

The last band is on stage.  Booked on a whim, I have no idea what to expect.  At this point my head is preoccupied planning a post-party pity parade.  With ice cream.  At least till the end of the show, forcing a smile.  Using the same muscles I grind my teeth with.  Suddenly music erupts from the stage.  The surge of vibrations shakes me free of rumination.  Drums pounding and guitars screeching, the sound consolidates into a languorous tempo and summons a belly dancer on stage.  Not at all what I expected.  am certainly not disappointed.

The lights are a soft lavender-red, accentuating angles in deep gray.  Following the movement of the dancer’s pelvis, I become aware of a flush creeping up my neck.  I feel the familiar sensation of a bad decision developing between my legs.  In an effort to distract myself, I look toward the band.  My eyes train on the bass player’s chest.  Only wearing jeans and long brown hair, muscles straining when he screams into the mic.  On his face there’s enthusiasm so clear, so obvious, I can’t help but genuinely giggle.  He has the right idea – be the party itself.

I’m compelled to get up and dance.  Powering through latent insecurity, my ample curves swing loose.  I’m twisting and turning, doing a bad mix of belly dancing and the robot, just letting myself feel it.  I’m just tipsy enough to dance like no one is watching, so I do.  The result is something like puppies wresting over a Milkbone under a blanket.  When the music grabs hold I have to respond.  A good dance party is the next best thing to bad sex, I always say.

Eventually slowing down, I find my way back to a chair.   Knees feeling the brunt of wearing heels all night, “Gonna feel that at yoga class tomorrow,” I muse.  But now I’m glistening with sweat and my heart is pumping.  Exactly the wake up call I needed.  I order another shot of Fireball and a pitcher for the band.  Not sure how I managed to let one asshole drag my birthday spirit down.  Nothing my favorite bartender can’t fix with a couple more rounds.  The band continues to rock the house, weaving a sultry mix of rock and thrash that keeps drawing my eye back to the stage.

After the show, I approach the stage.  Everyone is sweaty and laughing.  Clearly, a good time was had by all.  I almost approach the shirtless rock god but get flummoxed the closer I get.  Instead I talk to the group as a whole, “That was fucking awesome.  I couldn’t ask for a better closing act.”  Everyone utters syllables of agreement and high fives are doled out freely.  I timidly glance at everyone and then walk away.  A voice calls after me, “Hey what are you doing after this?”  I turn to see my dream guy looking in my direction.  Blushing all the way to my ears I almost respond when an adorable little blue-haired punk girl scoots by.  She goes up to him excitedly describing a late show starting down the street.  I force a smile one more time and make my way back to the bar.  Happy Birthday to me.