Post-Holiday Party Hell: The Clause

Day 86

As I debated writing this, hesitation mostly due to the dizziness, fatigue and nausea that is impeding me from any type of productivity or functional activity, I deemed it a necessary part of the holiday party hangover experience.  Sometimes, they say there is nowhere else to go but up. This is one of those situations.  Go back to start, no real use in trying to collect those fragments of dignity scattered on the dance floor, or perhaps lodged somewhere down your colleague’s  throat and/or pants.  This isn’t necessarily the worst position to be in.  You can’t really get dirtier or more shameless so deep in the gutter, therefore, only improvement lies ahead.  Beyond the anachronistic disco-lighted dance floor and leering party crashers there is a tree-lined lane, dappled with sunlight.  You’ll (probably) reach that lane, one day, and it won’t matter how many people you made out with, how many vodkas you vomited, or how you really didn’t pull off those stripper moves even after ten minutes of relentless attempts.   It’s all okay because of the Holiday Party Clause.

So you fucked your assistant?  Did it happen the night of the holiday party?  In the cloak room?  Twice?  Exempt.

Did you make out with two too many colleagues?  Exempt and exempt.

Did you smoke a shit ton of cigarettes, even though you “quit”?  Exempt.

So he tripped, hit his head…you didn’t know it was Special K!  You thought it was just blow!  Fuck.  Exempt, exempt, exempt.

As so accurately put to me this afternoon, the annual company holiday party is the epicenter of a year’s worth of scandal.   That is why the holiday party exists.  It is inevitable drunken mayhem in order to provide fodder for office gossip and intrigue.  We all knew this going in.  And, we will continue to look forward to and participate in holiday parties.  It’s pretty sadistic as well as masochistic, but what the hell else would we talk about between emails?