Be Afraid
I've heard things about company holiday parties, I've been warned and talked to by friends and my father about what actually happens. I've seen commercials, television shows and movies that reference the "crazy times" but I had yet to see for myself. I'm no corporate advocate, if you can make a living on your own or by doing something that completely avoids the corporate world, then more power to you, its true my benefits are better, but chances are you're a happier person than I. But get yourself a corporate job around the winter holidays, if only for a month, so that you too can experience what I can only say is a must see.
I had been to Rob's work parties before, a bunch of teachers shooting the shit at some local bar playing a few games of pool and sharing a couple of baskets of greasy bar food. Talking shop and personal business, everyone content and everyone paying there way. It's nice, friendly, very calm and absolutely nothing like what I've experienced twice in the last week.
The Scene: The Waldorf Astoria on a Cold Wednesday night.
The Time: 6 - 11PM
The Place: The Grand Ballroom
I walked in and was herded into a line of co-workers waiting around to check their personal belongings. I had not ever been to anything like this before and due to my injury I have been cumbersome and groggy. Looking around at those who surround me I already feel the self doubt creeping up into my head leaving a ring in my ears and a flush in my cheeks. I forgot to pack a change of clothes and I can't wear heels because of the pain in my knee. I see ball gowns and shiny shirts, suit jackets and blouses of silk, I tug at my shapeless sweater and paw my scalp hoping my fingers can do something with new haircut I got a week ago in hopes it would raise my spirit. I am used to feeling out of place at work, but here and now I feel as if I'm someone's tag-along daughter. I scan the crowd hoping to spot a familiar face some one to cling too until I can get enough alcohol in me to simulate courage or acceptance.
Dinner is bland but I'm not really paying attention to the food. The grand ballroom is resplendent with ornate gold leaf in the ceiling and intricate balconies which hold tables for people to sup at while they look down at the sea of coworkers mingling and drinking on the company dime. I have seen frenzies at open bars before, but none so unusual as this, mailroom clerks stand side by side with CEO's trying to fill their bellys' with as much free booze as they can consume before they get ill. The room is dim, which gives a youthful glow to the aging faces of Vice presidents and directors, I think I must look like an embryo in this ambiance.
I walk around like a child searching for her mother in a crowded mall, pausing to greet unfamiliar faces who utter my name as I pass. I gulp my glass of red wine and pause to take a tylenol 3 to ease the pain in my leg. (Side note wine and codeine may be lots of fun, but perhaps reserved for a non work related setting.) After returning to the bar for a refill I make my way out of the ball room to take a peek at the other two attractions for the evening. I have been told there is a Kareoke room and of all things a "hip-hop" room.
Kareoke is interesting to say the least. I don't believe there was enough alcohol in the building or codeine in my purse to ever get me randy enough to sing 'Summer Loving' in front of at least 100 co-workers, but our security managers version of Meatloaf's 'Paradise by the Dashboard Light' singing both the male and female verses will stick with me for a very long time. The night progresses, people continue to imbibe and talk closer than is normally comfortable. I have taken to placing my hand on shoulder of my male counterparts, not to flirt or lead them on, but to steady my balance and maintain an arms length between the two of us. A manager from another department cues me in on his plan to transfer me to his group (I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer to the investment banking gods that this transfer goes through.) And bravely make my way to the "hip-hop" room from where I can hear bass thumps emanating.
I feel like I'm walking the green mile complete with a dead mans limp and brace myself for the worst. There are no words for what I witnessed. I worked in clubs for four years. I've seen everything from public sex and urination to 60 year olds with twenty something barbies on their arms. But nothing I had ever seen could have prepared me for the abundance of white man's over bite I encountered that night. (For those who don't know, white man's over bite is the facial expression that most Caucasian males display when dancing to a particularly fast paced song. The eyes squint and the upper jaw protrudes over the lower lip resulting in a quite amusing/pained expression that remains plastered until the dancing concludes.) Bankers, accountants, stock brokers and assistants all bumping uglies in some sort of uncoordinated mating ritual. Mind you that come daylight all these people will shed their costumes and return to the work place pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred the night before. I stood affixed to my spot on the floor hoping no one would approach me, and why should they when 90% of the women had their racks proudly displayed while mine remained sheltered under the safety and warmth of an oversized sweater? By now the wine and codeine had created a nice buzz and the warmth of the sweater seemed too much too take especially when mixed with all the body heat generated by the gyrating professionals in my midst.
It was all to much for me, and I'm no prude, however this all seemed like a last ditch effort for those who have surpassed beyond their "carefree" years to pretend that they too had no worries. Though I too possess such burdens nothing was worrying me more then what would happened should I stay until 11 and like Cinderella dashing home before her dress turned back into rags I swiftly (well I was hobbled so it was swift considering) and quietly slipped into the night hoping to return home to my safe apartment to peel away the layers of adulthood until I was just me again.
I had been to Rob's work parties before, a bunch of teachers shooting the shit at some local bar playing a few games of pool and sharing a couple of baskets of greasy bar food. Talking shop and personal business, everyone content and everyone paying there way. It's nice, friendly, very calm and absolutely nothing like what I've experienced twice in the last week.
The Scene: The Waldorf Astoria on a Cold Wednesday night.
The Time: 6 - 11PM
The Place: The Grand Ballroom
I walked in and was herded into a line of co-workers waiting around to check their personal belongings. I had not ever been to anything like this before and due to my injury I have been cumbersome and groggy. Looking around at those who surround me I already feel the self doubt creeping up into my head leaving a ring in my ears and a flush in my cheeks. I forgot to pack a change of clothes and I can't wear heels because of the pain in my knee. I see ball gowns and shiny shirts, suit jackets and blouses of silk, I tug at my shapeless sweater and paw my scalp hoping my fingers can do something with new haircut I got a week ago in hopes it would raise my spirit. I am used to feeling out of place at work, but here and now I feel as if I'm someone's tag-along daughter. I scan the crowd hoping to spot a familiar face some one to cling too until I can get enough alcohol in me to simulate courage or acceptance.
Dinner is bland but I'm not really paying attention to the food. The grand ballroom is resplendent with ornate gold leaf in the ceiling and intricate balconies which hold tables for people to sup at while they look down at the sea of coworkers mingling and drinking on the company dime. I have seen frenzies at open bars before, but none so unusual as this, mailroom clerks stand side by side with CEO's trying to fill their bellys' with as much free booze as they can consume before they get ill. The room is dim, which gives a youthful glow to the aging faces of Vice presidents and directors, I think I must look like an embryo in this ambiance.
I walk around like a child searching for her mother in a crowded mall, pausing to greet unfamiliar faces who utter my name as I pass. I gulp my glass of red wine and pause to take a tylenol 3 to ease the pain in my leg. (Side note wine and codeine may be lots of fun, but perhaps reserved for a non work related setting.) After returning to the bar for a refill I make my way out of the ball room to take a peek at the other two attractions for the evening. I have been told there is a Kareoke room and of all things a "hip-hop" room.
Kareoke is interesting to say the least. I don't believe there was enough alcohol in the building or codeine in my purse to ever get me randy enough to sing 'Summer Loving' in front of at least 100 co-workers, but our security managers version of Meatloaf's 'Paradise by the Dashboard Light' singing both the male and female verses will stick with me for a very long time. The night progresses, people continue to imbibe and talk closer than is normally comfortable. I have taken to placing my hand on shoulder of my male counterparts, not to flirt or lead them on, but to steady my balance and maintain an arms length between the two of us. A manager from another department cues me in on his plan to transfer me to his group (I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer to the investment banking gods that this transfer goes through.) And bravely make my way to the "hip-hop" room from where I can hear bass thumps emanating.
I feel like I'm walking the green mile complete with a dead mans limp and brace myself for the worst. There are no words for what I witnessed. I worked in clubs for four years. I've seen everything from public sex and urination to 60 year olds with twenty something barbies on their arms. But nothing I had ever seen could have prepared me for the abundance of white man's over bite I encountered that night. (For those who don't know, white man's over bite is the facial expression that most Caucasian males display when dancing to a particularly fast paced song. The eyes squint and the upper jaw protrudes over the lower lip resulting in a quite amusing/pained expression that remains plastered until the dancing concludes.) Bankers, accountants, stock brokers and assistants all bumping uglies in some sort of uncoordinated mating ritual. Mind you that come daylight all these people will shed their costumes and return to the work place pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred the night before. I stood affixed to my spot on the floor hoping no one would approach me, and why should they when 90% of the women had their racks proudly displayed while mine remained sheltered under the safety and warmth of an oversized sweater? By now the wine and codeine had created a nice buzz and the warmth of the sweater seemed too much too take especially when mixed with all the body heat generated by the gyrating professionals in my midst.
It was all to much for me, and I'm no prude, however this all seemed like a last ditch effort for those who have surpassed beyond their "carefree" years to pretend that they too had no worries. Though I too possess such burdens nothing was worrying me more then what would happened should I stay until 11 and like Cinderella dashing home before her dress turned back into rags I swiftly (well I was hobbled so it was swift considering) and quietly slipped into the night hoping to return home to my safe apartment to peel away the layers of adulthood until I was just me again.
posted by selling my soul at 11:43 AM
1 Comments:
Wow.. sounds like the boy's Christmas party I went to w/ him.. but he had enough friends we danced like idiots after drinking too much and we didn't really care they were playing butt rock.
But more importantly.. girl.. what did you do to your knee? You ok?
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