stop light, neon light

I've made very compelling plans with myself to spend my Saturday learning obscure vocabulary and playing tennis in the sweltering heat. I was going to round off the day with that Bob Dylan movie I've been meaning to see for 6 months, but then I was invited to a Traffic Light party. For those of you who don't know what that is (although I don't know how you could get through college without at least hearing about one), it's sort of like a "wear your heart on your sleeve" costume party. Singles wear green (and drink heavily, because that's what they have to live for), coupled people wear red (and a look of smug satisfaction) and people whose marital status is more complicated wear orange (although frankly I think they should probably just wear green shirts that say "whore" and be done with it).

I like the idea of these traffic parties mostly because I revel in the potential for extreme, painful, palpable awkwardness. Not your obvious garden variety "awkward turtle" awkwardness -- no, I mean the kind between two people that extends beyond what would otherwise be their private world together and imposes itself on total strangers. I'm hoping harder than I've ever hoped for anything before that some girl shows up in red and her boy shows up in green and there's that moment of silence before she storms up to him and throws sangria in his face. I know that if it was me throwing that party, I would stage that scene for the benefit of my guests. Glory!

I, for one, will be wearing black -- I've taken myself off the market indefinitely for the benefit of mankind. No one needs to listen to me b*tch about the reasons I will most assuredly die alone with my cats.

Update: Actually, I don't have any cats. I don't even have any plants. I'll just die alone; it's probably better that way, then I'm not leaving behind an apartment full of unfed kitties and dessicated vegetation.