Stand-up Comedy by the Dessert Table

At the company holiday party last year, the room was a kaleidoscope of twinkling lights, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. The air was filled with the aroma of cinnamon and pine, mingling with the soft strains of holiday music. I found myself gravitating towards the corner, a sanctuary of sorts, where I could observe the festivities while nursing my sparkling water. The effervescent bubbles danced in my glass, mirroring the lively atmosphere around me.

As I stood there, a colleague, whose name I vaguely remembered from a meeting or two, approached with a curious look. "You don’t seem like the social type at all!" he blurted out, his voice a mix of surprise and amusement. I was taken aback. Me? Not social? Just because I wasn’t performing stand-up comedy by the dessert table or leading a conga line through the office cubicles?

The truth is, I adore socializing—but only on my own terms. I’m more of a social ninja: quiet, strategic, and very particular about my entry points into conversations. When you’re like me, speaking less and observing more, people often misinterpret your silence as aloofness or introversion. But in reality, you’re just… selective.

As the evening unfolded, I watched the ebb and flow of conversations, the way people moved from group to group, their laughter rising and falling like waves. I noticed the subtle dynamics at play—the way some people dominated the conversation, while others nodded along, waiting for a chance to speak. It was a fascinating dance, one that I enjoyed from the side lines.

Then, a moment presented itself. The office Wi-Fi, notorious for its unreliability, had become the subject of a particularly animated discussion. I saw my opportunity and seized it. With a well-timed quip about how the Wi-Fi had a mind of its own, possibly plotting world domination, I chimed in. The room erupted into laughter, a chorus of amusement that echoed off the walls. "You *do* talk!" someone exclaimed, their eyes wide with surprise.

I smiled, a small, satisfied grin. Socializing isn’t about quantity—it’s about quality. Sometimes, the quiet ones just choose their moments wisely. In that instant, I felt a shift. The perception of me as the quiet observer began to change. People started to engage with me more, curious about the person who had delivered the unexpected punchline.

As the night wore on, I found myself drawn into conversations, each one a new adventure. I talked about everything from holiday plans to favourite books, each exchange a chance to connect on a deeper level. I discovered shared interests and learned new things about my colleagues, their stories weaving into the tapestry of the evening.

The party continued, a blur of laughter and camaraderie. I moved through the room with newfound confidence, my initial hesitation replaced by a sense of belonging. I realized that being social didn’t mean being the loudest or the most outgoing. It was about finding those moments of genuine connection, where words flowed effortlessly and laughter came easily.

As the night drew to a close, I stood by the window, looking out at the snow-covered cityscape. The twinkling lights of the city mirrored the warmth I felt inside. I had come to the party expecting to be an observer, but I was leaving as a participant, having shared in the joy and camaraderie of the evening.

Reflecting on the night, I understood that socializing is an art, one that requires patience, observation, and a touch of courage. It’s about knowing when to speak and when to listen, when to step forward and when to hold back. It’s about being true to yourself and finding your own rhythm in the symphony of voices.

As I slipped on my coat and stepped into the crisp night air, the muffled hum of the party faded behind me. A swell of fulfilment rose in my chest—not the grand, cinematic kind, but the quiet, deeply satisfying type that feels like a secret handshake with yourself. I had done it. I had survived *and* thrived. The evening had been a delicate dance, and tonight, I was the Fred Astaire of holiday socializing.

You see, I approached parties like a social ninja. No dramatic entrances or over-the-top exits for me—I preferred to move with intention, blending in when necessary, shining when the moment called for it. There was that perfectly timed laugh during the host’s slightly self-indulgent toast, the effortless pivot when someone brought up politics, and, oh, the pièce de resistance: sneaking the last mini quiche when no one was looking. It was all about the art of choosing your moments.

I’d made connections, real ones. Like with the guy by the punch bowl who turned out to be as passionate about bad ’90s sitcoms as I am. Or the woman who taught me how to fold a napkin into a swan (an oddly satisfying skill). And when I’d felt my social battery draining, I didn’t force it. I found the dog, gave it an affectionate ear scratch, and silently recharged while sipping my drink.

As I walked to my car, the cold stinging my cheeks, I smiled. The memories I’d crafted tonight weren’t loud or flashy, but they were mine—moments of joy, connection, and comfortable solitude. I had navigated the party on my own terms, and it felt good. The holiday music might have faded away, but the warmth inside me? That would linger a little longer.

In the end, it wasn’t about being the life of the party. It was about being present, about finding joy in the connections I had made. And as I walked out into the crisp night air, I knew that I would carry the warmth of those moments with me, a reminder that sometimes, the quiet ones have the most to say.

I brought you this story because I just remember, I am very new to Vocal and would love to connect with great writers out there.

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