I drew Bert. I shall bestow upon him a ninety-percent-off-the-clearance-price Team Jacob shirt and a defunct Borders Book Store gift card with a one dollar and seventy-eight cent balance. Adoringly gift wrapped in junk mail. Bow crafted from plastic grocery bags.
Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.
Regret.
Regret bagging on my shoes, Bert.
After an exchange of a few pleasantries (read: gossip) with Rebecca, I head to the bathroom to readjust my bra and all the things that currently threaten to no longer dwell within.
7:45 p.m.
*
Victoria
: Spilling all my Secrets.
*
Holiday Party
: Secular.
THE EARLY SOJOURN TO THE BATHROOM was perfectly timed to miss our comptroller’s announcement that our company is in distress and there would be minimal bonuses this year. Most staff will get spiral sliced hams.
Oh, joy to the world.
Way to set a festive mood there, Jeremiah Bullfrog.
Rebecca and Madeline fill me in. It’s not entirely dire. There is a huge merger deal in the works.
If the contract comes together, not only will it save the company and our collective livelihoods but create a few new production jobs as well.
Mr. Personality himself, Canon, will be devoting all his time between now and Christmas to sewing it up. The man of the hour has not yet darkened the door this evening.
His involvement sets me at ease as well as most other folks who can see how effective he is at his job. It should also come as a huge relief to the residents of Whoville since he will be too preoccupied this year to steal their Christmas. Enjoy your roast beast in peace, Cindy Lou.
8:30 p.m.
*
White Elephants
: Exchanged.
*
Not Being Discussed
: Other pachyderm in the room.
*
Bert
: Team Edward.
*
Canon
: Still not here.
I WISH I DIDN’T FIND MYSELF watching for him every few minutes.
So let us properly assess this situation: I am trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey and just about as relevant at this moment, surrounded by a drunken crowd of people who may or may not even know my name despite having gone to work in the same building with me for upward of fifty-two weeks.
I have relied upon the guidance of a friend, who is well-intentioned but flaky enough to think everything from cup-size to prepositions are interchangeable, and who thinks my rather illicit designs on a man who has never deigned to look directly at me is not only not a cause for psychological counseling, but rather a call to arms.
Received a pair of ninety-nine-cent-store Crocs and a back scratcher in the shape of a brown nose. So I have that going for me. My life is complete.
They were from a person in human resources who I don’t think I have ever laid eyes on before. Touché.
I wish I had kept the same frame of mind all night tonight that I had while getting dressed. To come out and have fun with my friends and enjoy myself, not be concerned with some a-hole who would not cross the road to spit on me or my chicken cutlets.
This is ridiculous.
I am ridiculous.
9:15 p.m.
HE’S HERE.
Deepest midnight blue suit.
I want to get this accomplished and behind me.
I want to squeeze his behind. Whichever. I’m flexible.
It comes in handy.
He mills around by the large red and white poinsettia arrangement doubling as a present depository.
I inhale. Move into position.
I schedule a much needed self rebuke at eleven.
9:21 p.m.
*
Me
: By the poinsettias, being generally creepy.
A PARADE OF FEELINGS march through my mind. Dozens of them. So many that I almost expect to spot Robert Preston high-stepping it through here, singing about trombones.
Canon is alone. Solo.
I circle around, a lion to his gazelle. He sips from a highball. Stops. Straightens. Ears perk.
I move closer. Closer.
Into his personal space.
He shifts on one leg. Turns, angles away.
I clear my throat. The glass stops short of his lips. He straightens impossibly more. I catch a whiff of scent I can’t label but need to find and douse my pillowcase in.
He turns to me, one eyebrow lifted infinitesimally.
Here’s where I spot a fatal flaw in my design. I have walked up to him. I have his attention…and what do I do with it?
Say hello? Or shake his hand? Or rip the buttons off his shirt and commence with defiling the flower arrangement?
This is my moment.
The world around us goes on spinning. It’s just Canon and me in the doorway. He looks amazing. (And, I must admit, I look darn decent myself.) He smells amazing. He is amazing…ly annoyed-looking.
So yippee-ki-yay and carpe diem, as Clara said while zipping the back of my dress earlier.
Say something that opens up the discussion I have wanted to have for a year. Be eloquent. Be confident. Be a goddess.
“Hi.”
You know those funny moments in movies where things get all uncomfortable and the editors splice in the sound of crickets in the background? Yeah, those are so not funny when they really happen. And this is merely the DJ playing crickets of the “Buddy Holly and the” variety.
Canon pivots back away, handing me his empty glass in the process.
“Johnnie Walker. Neat.”
Flames. Flames out the side of my head.
Not only do I not ring any bells with him after twelve months of working together, apparently, my makeover result is that I now pass for waitstaff at this restaurant.
Rather than the day, I seize any reason to hightail it out of there before I’m motivated to stomp my heel directly onto his big toe.
I walk his glass to the bar.
Place his order, specifying Blue Label because I know that’s his preference. Even though I’d love to see his face if he were delivered an umbrella drink.
Point out the jackhole to whom it should be delivered.
This will not do. This simply will not do.
10:01 p.m.
*
DJ
: Karaoke: “I Will Survive.”
*
Dance Floor
: Barren.
*
Bar
: Drained.
I SPOT HIM ACROSS THE WAY, being chatted up by the vice presidents of sales and marketing.
Canon appears to barely stifle a yawn. He isn’t paying attention to the VPs in the slightest.
Turnabout is fair play; the VPs’ lines of sight pass over Canon and fixate on the area immediately to the left of him.
To his date.
She is made from the same mold as the other two dates I have witnessed, the ladies who have also rested their hand in the crook of his arm.
Flawless up-do. Ivory column dress. Diamond drop pendant of the Tiffany, not QVC, variety. Makeup job so perfect she looks as though she isn’t wearing any at all. A single beauty mark to highlight, rather than mar, faultless, olive skin.
Teeth so white they could potentially blind oncoming traffic.
My lip snarls up like I’m about to belt out “Rebel Yell.”
If pride cometh before a fall, then I am slip sliding away. I pride myself on being observant, so how did I not take into account how very different “his type” is than what I am?
All the extra effort we put into my appearance this evening has moved me even further away from the real bull’s-eye.