Friday night? A dream. A friend came over. She made dinner. I made cocktails. We laughed. Solved exactly none of the world’s problems but talked like we could. The kind of night where you think, This is it. This is all I need. No loud music, no shoes with arch support, just good food and great conversation.
And then came Saturday.
Saturday had a dance party on the books.
Which, listen. When I agreed to this plan a few weeks ago, it sounded fun. Probably because this all started when the people who met at my annual Winter Lodge birthday party decided they wanted to hang out again. They made plans. They invited me. And they expected me to show up.
But Present Me? Present Me was tired. Present Me was lying to herself about whether she’d actually go.
But I had committed. I was the common denominator. And I didn’t want to cancel on my friends.
So, fine. I put on the shoes. I put on the “sure, let’s do this” face. And I went.
Joyface, Joy Schmace
Joyface is a daytime dance party (because of course New York has those). 5 to 10pm, somewhere in Alphabet City or the Lower East Side. (What’s the difference? If you know, congrats, you’re a human GPS.)
It was packed. Sweaty. Full of people who actually enjoy dancing.
Now, I brought my Irishman, Frank, and listen — Frank is not a dance floor guy. We’re kitchen dancers. The kind of couple who slow dance while stirring pasta or dial it up after a couple of drinks, not the kind who throws it back to a remix of ’80s pop.
So, we did our best. We had a drink. We half-danced. We had fun enough. And then we were ready to call it a night.
Time to go. Or so we thought.
When the Universe Decides to Shake Up Your Night
Outside, Frank and I are debating food. I start chatting with the bouncer and a woman sitting nearby, because I’m me.
And that woman? Turns out, she’s Jen, the owner of Joyface.
Now, I tell Jen we’re craving Bob White’s fried chicken, but we don’t want to eat it in some takeout joint, and they don’t serve cocktails.
And Jen? Jen, in the most effortlessly New York way possible, leans in and goes:
“Follow me.”
LOVE PIT (Yes, That’s What It’s Called)
Jen leads us next door to a cocktail bar. Stops at the bar. Murmurs something to the bartender. Then, she takes us to the back, pulls open a curtain, and unveils a private, cushioned lounge area.
“This is the LOVE PIT,” she says. “If you promise not to make a mess, you can bring your takeout here and, of course, order cocktails.”
Did I just get invited into a secret den of fried chicken and craft cocktails?
Yes. Yes, I did.
So, we did exactly that. Got our food. Ordered our Palomas. Two more friends showed up. And suddenly, the night I didn’t think I had the energy for turned into one of the best damn nights I’ve had in ages.
LOVE PIT
The Lesson, Because There’s Always One
I almost didn’t go.
I almost let exhaustion win. I almost let meh keep me home.
And I almost missed out on a weird, fun, completely unplannable night that reminded me why I love New York.
And you? You’re doing the same thing in your business.
You know you need to shake things up. You know you’re getting a little too comfortable. You know something bigger is calling.
But you don’t want to go to the metaphorical dance party.
You don’t want to risk it. Don’t want to be awkward. Don’t want to step into something unknown.
But what if the thing you’re resisting?
What if it’s the thing that leads you to your own LOVE PIT moment?
What if saying yes to that shift, that bold move, that “ugh, I don’t feel like it” thing… puts you in a completely new place?
Look, you don’t have to go to the party.
But if you do?
You just might end up in the LOVE PIT.
