Friday night, the sequined skirt and heels finally left the closet and went out on the town.  The Bro-in-Law’s retching a distant memory but for reenactments provided by The Sis, they along with The Husband and I celebrated New Year’s Eve by leaving the suburbs and hitting midtown.  A rare event and spectacular feat considering the ever-ready excuses of a three-month-old (them) and an aversion to situations without designated, ahem, cab drivers (us).  Excuses aside, we convened at South City Kitchen for the early bird special at 6 pm and ate our prix-fixe dinner while watching the action unfold at Opera, a nightclub across the street from the restaurant.  A group of bouncers, all decked out in tuxes and over-the-shoulder holsters with some packed heat, were in a huddle taking their orders from Head Bouncer.  After them came the bartendress crew, the bottom of their skirts in ridiculous proximity to their cleavage.  Finally, a few party buses showed up and unloaded an unfair-seeming girl-guy ratio, the effects of which have surely appeared on the internet by now as photo documentation of a night full of bad decisions.  And to think, just a few years ago I was squatting outside with friends in a sub-zero New York parking lot because the line to the bathroom was too long.  A memory I recalled only after critiquing the barely-there attire and stumbling gait of some of the partygoers.  Nope, I’ve never made bad decisions–not me!

After dessert and more entertainment by the Opera pit crew, our foursome headed over to the Woodruff Arts Center on foot like a bunch of New Yorkers. Now for some full disclosure: the men on our arms were not as thrilled about the evening’s entertainment as The Sis and I were, and our excitement stemmed more from the opportunity to wear fancy clothes and drink champagne out of fun flutes (word to the wise: the symphony now allows beverages inside the hall.  SCORE!) than from anticipation of the culture we would be sampling.  But we all climbed to our nosebleed seats like good sports (the glasses in our hands helped) and settled in.  And that’s when the magic happened.

From the first note, the orchestra played melodies we had all heard somewhere along our various life paths, and not because we’re the culture club.  I can only speak for The Sis and me on this, but the typical mud-riding-on-a-farm-in-Shorter-with-a-keg-in-the-backseat music is not a selection of Mozart’s finest. But you can’t reach adulthood without hearing some of these tunes, even if it’s in a Velveeta Mac and Cheese commercial.  The first part of the all-Italian program featured Verdi, Puccini, Rossini, and other operatic composers.  I melted when “Nessun dorma” from Turandot was performed–a song I last heard (other than on my iPod) while in a wine-tasting van with my girlfriends rolling through the hills of Tuscany.  At intermission (which TH likes to refer to as halftime at any event, be it a hockey game, Broadway show, or, apparently, the symphony) the boys chose to forego the “out” we had given them earlier: if it sucks, we’ll go drink somewhere.  And our perseverance was rewarded not only by another trip to the bar but by a more current second-half selection: The Godfather theme, Sinatra hits, and music from Jersey Boys (another good memory–the first Broadway show that TH and I saw together).  We all left the hall humming, which is quite a step up from New Years past.  Like last year, when I was virally parked on a California motel toilet; or the bakers’ dozen or so before that one, when I was testing my hepatic function.

As we walked to the parking deck, TH and I passed Opera, its walls thumping with bass and revelry.  It was ten o’clock, and we were headed in for the night to watch a DVRed episode of The Soup then celebrate the ball-drop with Ryan Seacrest and a recovering Dick Clark.  Our old hometown pulsed onscreen with the addition of thousands of bodies ready to party in Times Square, and for the second time of the night I was watching a scene of which I am no longer a part.  But in the symphony hall, embedded in family, and on the couch, embedded in my favorite arm, my nostalgia was curbed by the essence of belonging, of having arrived home–an arrival preceded by bad decisions and outfits, but not prevented by them.  A home like a song, unexplainably familiar and big enough to envelop me in beauty.