A Full Dance Card

Dearest Rachel –

I was never the type who would have felt comfortable at a cotillion. Not only was dancing long disapproved of by my extended (and church) family – “a vertical expression of a horizontal desire,” it was described as, and given how I’ve often pointed out how my name is frighteningly apt, I wouldn’t argue – and therefore, I would be an utter maladroit if dropped into the middle of one, there are a number of certain traditions that I wouldn’t be able to deal with.

One of the ones that I find particularly galling is that of the dance card; basically, a glorified appointment book for the night. Only girls would have them; us guys would presumably load up the cards of certain, more popular, girls, in hopes of getting a chance to be with them for a song or two. Maybe, during the course of the dance, there could be some conversation that would allow you to get the girl’s attention for a later time (assuming you weren’t so concerned about stepping on her feet and ruining your chance that you could actually focus on having such a conversation). But in reality, you knew, deep down in your heart, you were just another name on her list, proving just how popular she was, and that you really had no more chance at her than anyone else. 

Granted, an optimist would point out that, as long as you were there on that list, you also had no less chance than anyone else, but you know me, honey. That’s not how I would have seen things. Besides, if this girl would pick you as “their” partner just out of random chance or whim, what’s to say they wouldn’t just drop you as easily? They could get bored with you, or just want to know what the next guy was like, or whatever. Dancing (and, on a more macro level, pursuing) a girl like this is like playing Hosea to her Gomer; I wouldn’t do it unless God Himself ordered me to, because I would know where I stood with her – barely in her periphery.

Meanwhile, such an arrangement is terribly detrimental to those girls not considered conventionally attractive or vivacious. You yourself were aware of this, finding yourself unable to join any of the sororities on campus, despite the fact that your mom had had such a good experience with them in her day, and thus encouraged you to rush. My folks did no such thing, and as such, I never attempted to pledge; indeed, the very thought would have been repugnant to me, to be honest. For what it’s worth, it’s possible that we would never have connected had you been accepted to any of the houses on campus; but of course, that’s an alternate history we’ll never know about.

Anyway, I’ve pretty much established my distaste for the dance card, as well as the social circles in which it existed. However, its purpose as a metaphorical concept is one I’m well familiar with, as is literally everyone I know at this time of year. Christmas, in particular, is a time of cramming one’s social calendar to the point of bursting, between ramped-up work commitments (this being the peak sales and shipping season, after all) and all manner of parties and get-togethers that are part and parcel of the holiday season. While I haven’t any of the former issues to deal with personally, there are enough people within my social circle that I’m aware of its influence. As for the latter, well…

Tomorrow will be when our extended family gets together for their annual Christmas party, and I’ve committed myself to bringing several dishes – which in hindsight, may have been a rash thing for me to do. I really thought you had written down your ‘crunchy salad’ recipe somewhere, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to find it in the various boxes of recipes you and your mom left behind. I can at least console myself with the fact that it exists online in various forms, so I might be able to replicate it closely enough to pass (although I have certain things in the pantry going begging that I’m going to use, rather than what these recipes tend to call for: I’ve got brown sugar instead of regular, for instance, to use in the dressing. Hope it works). Meanwhile, I’ve also put it in my head to marinate traditional Swedish meatballs in a decidedly non-traditional Japanese curry sauce. I don’t know how that will go over, but I’d like to think I’ll more than enjoy whatever the rest of the family decides not to.

All this is against the backdrop of Dad, still recovering from this most recent health scare (which, as you’ll recall from earlier letters, is putting things mildly). Given that Jenn was scheduled to host this party, there was a moment at which this might have been considered an unseemly thing to hold, under the circumstances. Even now, it seems odd to be celebrating while our literal paterfamilias languishes in hospital.

And yet, at the same time, there’s this feeling that, in the midst of this agonizing time of ‘what happens next?’ there’s this need we have to take a moment, to get together with our family, enjoy some time (and food) as a group, and be glad that we’ve made it through another year. Sometimes, just having that much is enough cause to celebrate, and we just need that little bit of Christmas even in the midst of the worst chaos, just to allow us to catch our breath. Who knows? Maybe a group of us will cross the street from Jenn’s place and wander over to see Dad and bring him greetings while we’re here.

As it is, I’m trying to keep up those visits myself, even as the deadline approaches when I need to get everything put together – and as I have other commitments for the day as it is. I’d planned to go straight from this morning’s Bible study to the hospital, and then back to church for my stint in the booth. But when Mom arrived (after an hour and a half at Dad’s side, wondering what there was for me to say to him), my resolve began to waver, and I asked permission to head home once the nurse came by to feed him. He’d been more lethargic today than previous days, in any event (possibly because of the relative quiet in the room, which I really wasn’t helping with), and with her there, my absence wouldn’t be quite so keenly felt.

It’s not as if I’m required to ask permission to come or go, but I feel the need on their part; not unlike the fact that they don’t insist that I let them know when I’m on the way to the ‘office,’ but they just appreciate the consideration being extended, I think. Still, I get used to doing so, and find myself needing almost to apologize for taking off sooner than I’d planned.

Not that I make much of the hour I get at home; it’s just enough time to grab some fruit for a very late breakfast, check to assure myself that the containers I have will be sufficient for the salad ingredients (greens, crunchies and dressing all separate for now), finish this letter to you, and head back out. I’ll still have to concern myself with chopping and mixing tomorrow after church, as well as putting the meatballs and sauce in the crockpot (yes, I’m actually using that thing! Who would have believed it?) before heading out in the morning to work both services. All in all, I dare say that I’ve got a full dance card of my own to deal with this weekend.

So with that being said, honey, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.