And the number one reason to be self-employed? The lack of co-workers to embarrass you (or themselves) at office parties.
In his epic poem “The Waste Land,” TS Eliot wrote, “April is the cruelest month.” He obviously did not work in an office where the biggest annual event was the staff Christmas party. Forget April; the truly cruel month, any person who works anywhere other than a home office can tell you, is December. Early spring’s grey skies, rain and mud don’t come close to matching the miseries of the staff Christmas party. No one, it seems, looks forward to them.
Whether it’s a “cozy” party for six at your boss’s home or an all-you-can-eat buffet for 250 at the banquet hall down the street, the office party is always fraught with anxiety. Are you going to know everyone there, or will it be one of those parties where you only know 10 of the 150 guests? Will you be drastically under- or overdressed? Will there be any vegetarian food there, or will you be stuck picking through steak salad, looking for unsullied lettuce to snack on? Is the 60-year-old secretary going to get drunk and chase the boss around the dining room table, demanding to plant “just one kiss on your little bald head”? Will the office creeper be standing around with a sprig of mistletoe tucked into his fly and a smirk on his face—again? Will you do something more embarrassing than anyone else? How will you ever live it down? Just thinking about it is almost too much to bear.
Not everyone has had an experience like those above (though they’re all true stories, collected from staff Christmas parties my friends and I have attended across the province) but everyone seems to have some sort of workplace-party-related horror story. It seems to be generally accepted that the staff Christmas party is a seasonal trial to be endured along with old fruitcake, mall madness and dinner with Aunt Zelda on Christmas day. Although the staff party probably began as a gesture of goodwill, any original thoughtfulness is now almost completely obscured by layer upon layer of angst, generated by the thought of having to spend time with one’s co-workers outside of the workplace, away from the water cooler and too close to the bar.
This is how the world ends, Eliot. Not with a bang, but a whimper—and a lampshade hat and a broken photocopier. In December.
This article appears in Dec 15-21, 2005.
