How I survived the office Christmas party

It was the last thing I was looking forward to — attending Christmas parties — simply because 2011 hasn’t been rocking for me. The Chinese zodiac had predicted 2011 would be a bad year for my sign and the Chinese, being authorities on such matters as horoscope and feng shui, were right on the money. I’ve been quietly hoping for the rest of the year to whiz by, but you know how it is with unfortunate events, they seem to trudge on at a snail’s pace. 

 Not to get all Scrooge about it, but I had to drag my heavy boots in the past several days to two parties so by the third — lined up for last Saturday — I had decided to do a no-show. It was a planned visit to an orphanage to deliver Christmas goodies with dear friends and a party immediately following. But I knew I could have had my food contributions to the party delivered and my donations for the orphans sent at another time so I went out for coffee and quiet time with a friend instead. When my phone rang at around 4 p.m. and the caller ID on the screen flashed the orphanage mistress’s name, I knew I had to honor my commitment.

 We each had experienced mega doses of group dances set to Nikki Minaj’s Superbase, I’m sure, but nothing as moving as when those orphans, who have close to nothing to their names, danced to it with wild abandon and nary a care about all the pain in the world. I resolved, if only for that night, to abandon my one-woman pity party and rock on like them. 

 On to the Christmas party. People say all Christmas parties are the same: generic grub-and-booze-fueled revelries of stressed-out characters looking to unload their baggage if only for a night. I say, why the hell not? Everybody clocks in serious hours all year round and the annual Christmas party is the one time people should be grateful for both a reason and the resources to celebrate. 

 When I was a youngster and could do precious little but observe these company Christmas parties my family had, I passed the time doing just that — sitting and watching and enjoying every minute of it.

 There would always be the company funny man — the jester — who would have everyone in stitches even before his first drink. There would always be the prettiest/hottest employee who chose said occasion to highlight her best physical attributes, which otherwise were concealed by demure blazers year-round, awakening the rabid beast within even the most benign of accountants and instilling panic in the wives and envy in the less-endowed among the female work force. There would be the company jerk, who always mismanaged his alcohol intake, making a spectacle of himself. There would be the closet entertainer, hiding behind his glasses and adding machine all year (this was before the advent of the desktop computer, children) who would then explode onto the dance floor with an Elvis Presley shimmy and crotch-grabbing moves.   

 But in all those years of attending company Christmas parties as a child, I don’t recall one instance where a woman lost herself in the spirit of merriment. That was strictly male territory. Women mostly huddled around the buffet or the gift table, keeping to themselves, venturing out to mingle with those across the room only after a stiff cocktail. Otherwise, they busied themselves with the organization of the evening’s program and the games.

 I get that woman are held hostage by social convention which require exemplary deportment at all times in public, even at the height of merriment, and yet given the increasingly relaxed social rules, very few dare gamble with reputation.  Or perhaps this statement just gives away my age because the younger ones don’t have issues with this. All you need to do is tune in to MTV or, hey, even The Disney Channel, and you’ll see Miley Cyrus and every teenager head-banging to music, free of inhibitions.

 We women still police ourselves of any unbecoming behavior. With enough champagne we will go as far as getting up from our chairs and shaking our hips just a wee but, careful to keep our feet planted to the spot right beside our chairs — not an inch more. Excuses are many: “What will people say?”; “I’m not the type”; “I’m tired”; “I have a headache”; “Next time”; “Not with these good shoes on” — and many senseless others.

 Well, until last weekend, that is. It could have been all the baggage of this year and the past few weeks, specifically. It could have been the besieged mind. It could have been the several glasses of bad wine. It could have been the music.  But I did what I have not done since I was in college. I got up, walked several paces from my seat to the fringe of the dance floor and danced by myself, for myself, as though no one was watching. And it wasn’t just for a few minutes , but for a long time. And it was liberating! 

 It wasn’t just shoulder-shrugging either, or imperceptible hip-shaking. I’m talking real movement here: legs, arms, torso — everything, and turning, too — seriously! I was too much in the “zone” to care about appropriateness of behavior. I was in Happyville.

 A while later, close friends, who clearly had the same agenda in mind — to simply have fun — joined me. First, there was Stephen, this scary, macho, US Army Special Forces dude who danced without a care in the world. Then, it was Brian, one of my hottest, sweetest gay friends, who did his version of a pok pok dance — eat your heart out, Jennifer Lopez. Then, there was Nic, this smart cookie of a university professor, and a gentleman jester of sorts, who can do fierce Michael Jackson moves even at middle age. And then there was Elbert who did a mean Rico Mambo, plus Mike and Gody, who showed us how.

But not to be outdone, women ate up the men in terms of dance moves: Del, Ethel, Sen and Tina showed all these men just who wears the pants on the dance floor.  

And afterward, I didn’t have the usual morning-after regret/shame syndrome like my friends or I might have in the past. I now know why. I felt safe. I was among people who cared about each other — people who had each other’s backs. There was never a threat of men making a pass or of men taking advantage or of catty women making fun of each other. It wasn’t because I was any braver. It definitely wasn’t because any of us was incoherent. It was because of the positive energy and the environment that fostered it.

 I have asked random friends about how their office Christmas parties turned out before I started writing this and, based on their stories, this observation seems to ring true. Those who said theirs was boring or forgettable came from problematic office cultures besieged by cliques, polarization, gossip, bad blood, so few people really let themselves go for fear of criticism. Those who raved about how much fun they had come from groups that are founded on healthy camaraderie and positive vibes, where everybody can be who they are and feel safe about not being judged.

 I know now that I don’t have to think twice about dancing like those orphans did with wild abandon to Nikki Minaj’s Superbase whenever I am in the company of dear friends — good shoes be damned.

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 Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.