The truth is, Cinderella had wanted to go to the ball for many years. There was live music at balls. More than just about anything, Cinderella loved music. Cinderella also loved to dance. At least, she thought she would love to dance if she ever really got the chance. Then again, maybe dancing was just one of those things that sounded really good until you did it, like public speaking or something. Perhaps in another life when all men were gifted with coordination and grace and courtesy and – most of all-a great sense of rhythm, she would get her chance to go sailing across a parquet dance floor.

Year after year the invitations came. She opened them eagerly and read every word, every description of the theme, the musical selections, the plated meal. Every year she would sigh and check her bank account and lay the invitation aside and think about it until it was too late to do anything about it.

Then one year there came a triple play for her attention. First, the invitation by traditional mail. Second, the invitation by email. Thirdly, dance lessons for that specific ball were offered at a local dance studio. Dance lesson that very evening. She would never have known but for randomly checking her email while on lunch break. Who could resist a special four-session discount? Without much deliberation, Cinderella went. She learned to Foxtrot. She learned to Swing. She heard the instructor comment on the level of dancing experience of the men who would be at the ball. Who were these men? Were they coming alone? As a team? Cinderella did not know. But it did not trouble her much, because she had not yet decided whether or not she would go. Or had she? Had she committed herself to going to the ball by taking advantage of discounted dance lessons? Surely not!

At the next session, the instructor made some off-hand remarks about dancing in an evening gown. “Evening gown?” thought Cinderella in alarm. “Have I ever owned an evening gown?” Now that changes things. “Here’s what I’ll do,” said Cinderella to her roommate. “I’ll just wear my ordinary black dress and take this pumpkin with me. Everyone will have to understand my fairy godmother didn’t show.” They laughed at the joke, but Cinderella was beginning to think she should uncommit herself.

That very weekend, she went to visit her cousin in another town. “Evening Gown?” said her cousin. “Here, borrow mine.” Cinderella had not expected that response. Once again Cinderella was forced to debate the wisdom of going to the ball unaccompanied.

Over the years, Cinderella had learned there were things you never got to do if you waited for someone to go with you. She bought the ticket. One single ticket. And in so doing inadvertently served a challenge into the court of the event planner. Fund raising events and dinner shows have tables. Round tables. Tables that seat an even number of event goers. Tables for ten to sponsor for thousands of dollars. Hundred dollar plates for couples to purchase in pairs. What’s an event organizer to do with a single ticket holder? Communicate, of course, which she did promptly via email. “Do you know anyone else who is going? Can I seat you with your friends?”

“You mean I can sit with my friends? Oh yes please! I know a violinist, a couple trumpeters, a French horn player, and a saxophonist.   We go back. Way back. Are there any vacant seats next to them?” asked Cinderella. But she only asked it in her head. Instead she responded, “Feel free to place me at a singles table or the odd place to fill out a table. I am quite comfortable with music lovers young or old.”

Replied the coordinator, “I’m glad you’re coming, even as a single date. I go on self-dates all the time, but I’ve never tried a formal event before. I like that.”

And that, my children, is how Cinderella became a trendsetter. One solitary woman, past a certain age who refused to wait for an escort or a man to help her complete her bucket list. Who realized it was time to take her place as a sturdy and august patron of the arts. Her gown is borrowed, her slippers are not glass. Though her pearls are real, her fur will be faux. Her coach is Red Pearl, a trusty Subaru. She is going to the ball. And she will definitely be home before the clock strikes twelve.