Not Another Office Christmas Party

Every year towards the beginning of December my office has a holiday party. Everybody dresses up. It’s always at a restaurant the company buys out for the night. It always has an open bar.

I hate it.

The first (and lesser) reason for this is that I take an inordinate amount of flack from certain individuals in the office for the day of the party being “the one day a year Elizabeth puts on makeup and a dress!” While they are about eighty percent correct, that doesn’t mean the joke doesn’t touch a nerve. No, I don’t put much thought into my day-to-day appearance beyond ‘clean and tidy’--I don’t have the patience to deal with hair product and perfect eyeliner on a regular basis. I was a dyed-in-the-wool tomboy growing up and I never really had an attachment to anything frilly--and I spent inordinate amounts of time in a ballet studio, which you’d think would make me the girliest girl who ever lived, but if I could have performed every Nutcracker and recital in straight-up tights and a leotard so that my lines were clean, I would have. I mean, I’m not trying to claim that I never had my more frou-frou moments, but mostly I was all about function over fashion. I do not now, nor have I ever, done designer handbags and million-color eyeshadow palettes.

Still, I go along with the mock astonishment for the sake of the joke, saying that the day of the party should be declared a national holiday, et-har-very-har-cetera. When the party actually happens, I then have to brave the onslaught of commentary regarding my appearance. Don’t get me wrong, I take no issue with a sincere but simple, “You look nice.” It’s the over the top “Oh my GAWD! You look SO [adjective]! Doesn’t she look so [adjective]?! Oh my GAWD!” that make me want to turn invisible. I intensely dislike having a fuss made over me--at least publicly--and when it’s being done by people who have managed to pass the legal blood alcohol limit half an hour before I even made it to the party, it’s worse. It would be bad enough if it was just once a year, but any time I decide I feel like dressing things up a bit just because, my entire office lose their minds and start squealing about it and I just cringe. And then I don’t dress up again until I have to just to avoid everyone getting the vapors because I’m in a skirt.

And as if that wasn’t enough, there’s still the other thing that makes me dread this party. I hadn’t until last Friday (12/7, several hours prior to the party itself) made the connection for myself, but my infinitely clever therapist pointed it out and then I felt like a really dumb bunny. The gist of it is this: I dread this party like no other because I spend the entire thing in a state of hypervigilance because I am convinced that the open bar is going to lead to someone grossly overindulging (and, based upon historical, first-hand evidence, this is infinitely likely,) and deciding that assaulting me is a Very Good Idea.

“That last bit is a pretty catastrophic conclusion to draw. You know the odds of that are pretty miniscule, right?”

...Well, shit, Doc.

Maybe you recall a few posts back when I discussed THIS. I’ll give you a few minutes to refresh your memory. Go on, I’ll wait.


...


Done? Fine. Now that it’s been pointed out to me, it makes complete sense that I would spend the run-up to this party thinking of everything that could possibly happen and the best ways to either keep it from happening, or getting out of any potential altercation--by diversion, or by force if necessary. I am acutely aware of the fact that alcohol only increases the possibility, so it’s no wonder I have studied the drinking habits of certain members of staff, observed their actions while intoxicated, figured out how to stay as far away from them as possible when there’s booze to be had. The last four years the party has been at the same restaurant, and I have memorized the floor plan and all the exits--you know, I don’t even go to the bathroom during this shindig. They’re located down a hallway, out of sight enough to be a problem. I obsess over the details, repeat the possibilities in my head over and over, and by the time I actually get there I’m exhausted and fraying at the edges, jumpy and hyper-aware of my surroundings.

Because I have been there before. I know what can happen when someone decides they have the right to overpower you. I have devoted countless hours of time and reserves of energy to making sure that I am never in that situation again.

And this year? This year I had what I suppose I could label a runner-up problem. A colleague invited a (male) friend as her Plus 1 just to have someone to go with. Plus 1 found me agreeable, which was fine for about half an hour, but at that point he turned up the pressure--disguised as easy charm, of course--and all my red flags started flying. I repeatedly said no to more drinks and anything else he suggested, but apparently “No” didn’t compute for him somehow, and I then had to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to find people on the other side of the restaurant to talk to so I wasn’t alone.

I left at eleven (the earliest I could get away and have it be socially acceptable, since I dawdled in getting there and was 45 minutes late) feeling helpless and furious at the same time, which isn’t an ideal combination of emotions, let me tell you. I was physically vibrating.

I mentioned Plus 1’s failure to take my refusals seriously to the colleague who had brought him in a text the next morning, and was met with, “You can’t blame the guy for trying.” No, I can’t blame him for trying. What I can blame him for is not knowing when to stop trying. “He really did enjoy talking to you and told me how pretty he thought you were. So that’s gotta feel good. Right?” No! Wrong! It doesn’t feel good at all. It feels cheap and creepy and like the walls are closing in around me. It makes me feel powerless. Maybe if he had taken the hint and eased off, stopped being so overbearingly pushy and just, I don’t know, been a person instead of a fucking stereotype, then maybe it might have been flattering. Maybe. All I know is that my chest has been constricted since Friday morning and I’m fighting off insistent men in my dreams at night. I don’t want people touching me--even people with whom it hasn’t previously been an issue. I don’t want to see people. I don’t want to talk to people. I just want to be left alone because alone is safe and nobody tries to lecture me about ‘being too sensitive’ or try to explain that ‘that’s just how guys are’ or tell me to ‘just get over it’.

I just want to exist without constantly having to fight for it.

Why is that so hard?