So the confusing unexpected birthday party went pretty okay. And by 'pretty okay' I mean the room as a whole achieved a level of drunkenness that inspired everyone to share reminiscences of previous instances of drunkenness. It turns out that several of the old guard went to college together, so I got to hear tales of shit-faced shenanigans that occurred while I was still learning to walk. One of them brought his sister, with whom I had a thoughtful discussion about how tequila is a series of terrible decisions in a bottle. Helpful hint: When someone starts out their story with a trick question like, "Okay, if you were completely hammered, would you rather crawl naked into bed with [dude who is standing RIGHT THERE, participating in the conversation], or crawl naked into bed with a total stranger?" the only reasonable response is to pause thoughtfully for half a second and say, "Well, what does this total stranger look like?" I didn't get to hear the rest of the story, as they were both doubled over laughing, but it did keep me out of worse trouble.
All of which is to say that I am now apparently part of this social circle, which is a difficult thing to wrap my head around, as one of the centerpieces of it is the Executive Artistic Director here at the studio. While there is no real separation between the volunteer corps and the clientele who teach and dance here -- which is lovely and a complete 180 from all the things that irked me about the church-based groups I encountered in Arizona -- there is a definite hierarchy that emerges in the people who run the place. The volunteers are at the bottom, mainly because they are almost all new kids and most of them vanish before a year is up; then the event staff and stage crew, who get contracts and are paid actual money; then the semi-permanent office staff, who have weekly meetings to which the lower ranks are not invited; then the EAD, who answers mainly if not solely to the board. The facilities manager is pretty integral, but also pre-dates literally everything except the physical building, cannot be forced into staff meetings if she doesn't feel like going, and is not argued with when she puts her foot down about the budget.
And then there is me. I have been convinced for a while that I am the only person here who talks to all of the other departments, and have yet to see any evidence to suggest otherwise. They like to put me in charge of things when someone else has an emergency and can't be here. Which is fine, until I point out that I need something in order to do that properly, at which time they remind me of my place in the world. Nobody is irreplaceable, and I do try to stay in my lane enough to make life easier on all of us, but if I got hit by a bus they would definitely notice.
None of this is any particular secret, although for the sake of my sanity I've decided it's probably best to not mention any birthday parties to the randos at the desk with me. Explaining the whole thing would be stupidly complicated, especially to people who don't know who Mr. New York Producer is, why he's a VIP here, or what kind of God-given obliviousness prompted him to invite crew to the EAD's birthday bash.
It genuinely is obliviousness, I've decided, plus for whatever reason he likes me. This is the third year running that someone has come barrelling out of the woodwork going HELLO, FRIEND! and I'm left going hello, er, what? When did this happen? Why do you know who I am? Once is a miracle, twice is a coincidence, three times isenemy action my annual springtime tradition, apparently.
He has started hugging me on a regular basis, which is pretty normal around here, and also developed a habit of catching my hand briefly on his way out, which is less so. For those of you not in theater, hugging is a common form of communication. Most people use it for 'hello' and 'goodbye', much like the cheek-kiss common in Europe; many also use it for 'thanks' and 'congrats' and 'sympathy'; and some pretty much just default to 'we appear to be existing in the same room, and I don't particularly dislike you'. Theater people are a huggy bunch, is my point. It's not an especially cosmic sign, but it does mean I've transitioned from the Geselleschaft 'person who works at the venue' to the Gemeinschaft 'person I know'.
The hand-catch is not common, and in fact I've been operating on the assumption that it's a bit of ballroom dialect, as the only people who do it regularly are Ye Ballroom Instructor and the Eccentric. It's a generalized acknowledgement whose exact significance depends on context, but one of its most common meanings is 'thanks for the dance', when the room is too noisy for speaking.
How cosmic -- or not -- that sign is, I've no idea. The Eccentric does things like that a lot because he is very invested in his friendships, and I know that because we've had that discussion in so many words. Ye Ballroom Instructor is harder to get a bead on, since he'd really rather gnaw his own arm off than talk about any of this. (It's worth noting that the most overtly panicked I've ever seen him was when he was about to say something he was afraid would make me think he didn't want me hanging around, and the only time I've ever heard him raise his voice was when he was worried he hadn't gotten across that that WAS. NOT. TRUE.) I make most of my friends the normal way, by having conversations with them over time, but those two are the main examples I have for people who woke up one morning and decided to write my name on their list of Favorite People, and forgot to send me a notification.
I find the English language fails here. This is yet another case of, "would definitely be flirting if it were not you," and there is no good way to talk about that. We have eighty million ways to describe the things you do to try to charm your way into someone's pants, but nothing fit for purpose when talking about someone who is just trying very, very, very earnestly to make friends.
I also find it disconcerting when the people I pay attention to pay attention back. Were it not for the embargo I keep on the real names of people I have to interact with in person, I would post video of some of his performances. They are in many ways of a kind with the things I post about people like Noel Fielding and Julian Barrett, or Stephen Colbert and John Stewart -- one of his specialties, whether or not he is aware of it, is just to connect with whoever he's dancing with, and make that connection part of the piece. His group comes through 2-3 times a year, and I used to sneak off to the balcony to watch whatever bits he was doing. Things on stage are fair game for me to gawk at. Couldn't tell you how much of it is intentional acting and how much is just what happens when he performs, but given how he's behaving with me now, I'm guessing this is just sort of a running theme in his life.
All of which is to say that I am now apparently part of this social circle, which is a difficult thing to wrap my head around, as one of the centerpieces of it is the Executive Artistic Director here at the studio. While there is no real separation between the volunteer corps and the clientele who teach and dance here -- which is lovely and a complete 180 from all the things that irked me about the church-based groups I encountered in Arizona -- there is a definite hierarchy that emerges in the people who run the place. The volunteers are at the bottom, mainly because they are almost all new kids and most of them vanish before a year is up; then the event staff and stage crew, who get contracts and are paid actual money; then the semi-permanent office staff, who have weekly meetings to which the lower ranks are not invited; then the EAD, who answers mainly if not solely to the board. The facilities manager is pretty integral, but also pre-dates literally everything except the physical building, cannot be forced into staff meetings if she doesn't feel like going, and is not argued with when she puts her foot down about the budget.
And then there is me. I have been convinced for a while that I am the only person here who talks to all of the other departments, and have yet to see any evidence to suggest otherwise. They like to put me in charge of things when someone else has an emergency and can't be here. Which is fine, until I point out that I need something in order to do that properly, at which time they remind me of my place in the world. Nobody is irreplaceable, and I do try to stay in my lane enough to make life easier on all of us, but if I got hit by a bus they would definitely notice.
None of this is any particular secret, although for the sake of my sanity I've decided it's probably best to not mention any birthday parties to the randos at the desk with me. Explaining the whole thing would be stupidly complicated, especially to people who don't know who Mr. New York Producer is, why he's a VIP here, or what kind of God-given obliviousness prompted him to invite crew to the EAD's birthday bash.
It genuinely is obliviousness, I've decided, plus for whatever reason he likes me. This is the third year running that someone has come barrelling out of the woodwork going HELLO, FRIEND! and I'm left going hello, er, what? When did this happen? Why do you know who I am? Once is a miracle, twice is a coincidence, three times is
He has started hugging me on a regular basis, which is pretty normal around here, and also developed a habit of catching my hand briefly on his way out, which is less so. For those of you not in theater, hugging is a common form of communication. Most people use it for 'hello' and 'goodbye', much like the cheek-kiss common in Europe; many also use it for 'thanks' and 'congrats' and 'sympathy'; and some pretty much just default to 'we appear to be existing in the same room, and I don't particularly dislike you'. Theater people are a huggy bunch, is my point. It's not an especially cosmic sign, but it does mean I've transitioned from the Geselleschaft 'person who works at the venue' to the Gemeinschaft 'person I know'.
The hand-catch is not common, and in fact I've been operating on the assumption that it's a bit of ballroom dialect, as the only people who do it regularly are Ye Ballroom Instructor and the Eccentric. It's a generalized acknowledgement whose exact significance depends on context, but one of its most common meanings is 'thanks for the dance', when the room is too noisy for speaking.
How cosmic -- or not -- that sign is, I've no idea. The Eccentric does things like that a lot because he is very invested in his friendships, and I know that because we've had that discussion in so many words. Ye Ballroom Instructor is harder to get a bead on, since he'd really rather gnaw his own arm off than talk about any of this. (It's worth noting that the most overtly panicked I've ever seen him was when he was about to say something he was afraid would make me think he didn't want me hanging around, and the only time I've ever heard him raise his voice was when he was worried he hadn't gotten across that that WAS. NOT. TRUE.) I make most of my friends the normal way, by having conversations with them over time, but those two are the main examples I have for people who woke up one morning and decided to write my name on their list of Favorite People, and forgot to send me a notification.
I find the English language fails here. This is yet another case of, "would definitely be flirting if it were not you," and there is no good way to talk about that. We have eighty million ways to describe the things you do to try to charm your way into someone's pants, but nothing fit for purpose when talking about someone who is just trying very, very, very earnestly to make friends.
I also find it disconcerting when the people I pay attention to pay attention back. Were it not for the embargo I keep on the real names of people I have to interact with in person, I would post video of some of his performances. They are in many ways of a kind with the things I post about people like Noel Fielding and Julian Barrett, or Stephen Colbert and John Stewart -- one of his specialties, whether or not he is aware of it, is just to connect with whoever he's dancing with, and make that connection part of the piece. His group comes through 2-3 times a year, and I used to sneak off to the balcony to watch whatever bits he was doing. Things on stage are fair game for me to gawk at. Couldn't tell you how much of it is intentional acting and how much is just what happens when he performs, but given how he's behaving with me now, I'm guessing this is just sort of a running theme in his life.
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