These days, I have to concentrate on having fun. I’m slowly starting to go out again, and I will actually find myself having a good time, until I let my mind wander, and my hand reaches for my mother’s rings, which I wear on a black cord around my neck. I plan to find a beautiful silver chain for them, but the black cord actually feels more durable, and against black, the rings appear to be floating against my chest.

I went to a birthday party last Saturday night. It was a huge party where I saw a lot of old friends. Some of them knew, and we spent the first minute or so with them expressing their condolences. Afterward, I settled in to the rest of the party, and had the most fun talking to people who I’d just met, and those who didn’t know that my mother died.

Those who know me know that I like to dance. Love to dance, in fact. I’m always looking for a good dance partner, and I’m not the girl who will turn a guy down just because I don’t find him attractive (because let’s face it — the attractive ones rarely ask me to dance). Many times, I’ve heard my male friends complain that women take dance requests too seriously. They say “Damn! I wanted to dance with her, not marry her!”

So, I dance. And I get myself in trouble every time. Twice that night I danced with guys who thought that, just because I spent about 15 minutes on the dance floor with them, that I should be willing to forfeit a phone number. Not so much.

I slinked away from both of them without submitting any digits, and spent the remainder of the evening talking to one of my girlfriends who I hadn’t seen in forever, and consorting with my lady-slayer friend T., and his boys who made the evening much more fun. I told them about the column — even showed them the column, hoping they wouldn’t hold it against me.

The best story of the night happened after the party. I was limping to my car, as my feet were threatening a hostile coup from being made to dance in high-heeled boots all night, and I was approached by a man who I’d seen inside the party. (In that neighborhood, if I hadn’t seen him earlier, I would have forced my feet to break into a swift sprint.) I couldn’t take my eyes off of his horrific, faux man-fur. Maybe it was synthetic, maybe it was a hybrid rat-badger coat. I don’t know. Whatever it was looked like something that would hesitate to wipe my feet on. But I digress . . .

So, he approached me and told me that he found me to be “sensual.” Never mind that I doubt he could see me in the dark, much less determine my sensuality, but whatever. He told me that he is from Trinidad, and that his name is Dominique, all the while writing his phone number on a card. I looked up at him — he was a tall guy — about 6′3″ — and noticed that his winter hat said “I love sex.” It actually said “I [heart] sex,” similar to the “I [heart] NY” hats that the tourists love.

At that moment I thought that I’d sunk to a new low - I was in the freezing cold, with throbbing feet, walking to my car (that was parked in front of a White Castle), talking to a man named Dominique who is wearing a hat that advertises his love of sex. Really? Could it get worse?

Oh, yes it could!

Dominique insisted on walking me to my car. I protested, because I simply didn’t have the energy to beat his ass if he got out of line. He said “this is a bad neighborhood. There are a lot of crazy people out here.” I asked if he could be one of the crazies. He said: “I’m safe. I work for the state. Wanna see some ID?”

Well, of course I did.

Dominique whips out the ID — trying to keep up with my speedwalk pace — and I could tell that he was holding it kind of funny. It just wasn’t right. At that point, I noticed that his name is really Steve. So, in true Gina-style, I called him on it. Why? Who knows? But I couldn’t let him get away with it. He told me that Steve is his American name.

At that point, sensing that abduction was imminent, I jumped into my car and jetted, leaving Steve/Dominique/whomeverthefuck in the dust.

A fun night of dancing, flirting and drinking — and dodging derelicts. Hopefully more to come. Sans derelicts, hopefully.