Thoughts on Holiday Parties

...or choosing not to attend

Because it's freezing cold and there are chores to be done and animals to love.  And, no matter how the trying twists into almost-certainty, I can be surely certain that home beckons.  

But there are the holiday parties to think of.  

Company ones really are the best.  And even though the years blend into one, there still are a few moments that puncture memory with their idiosyncratic poignancy - managers necking their assistants; fights bursting between never-before-noticed staffers; chief officers shot-gunning beers while their spouses lurk in the shadows; unfettered, unabashed confessions of love and obsession [ie: i fucking love you].  And the chaos that follows the next day - staffers forced to crawl on fours in order to remain unseen as they pass through rows and rows of cubicles; bits of weave missing from scalp; hickeys obscured by itchy, outdated turtlenecks.  

They really are classic.  

Then there are the non-corporate holiday parties - the ones hosted by friends.  The ones leaving party-goers squeezed into a 350sf flat, huddled around a wooden trunk caked in candle wax and bits of cracker crumbs, brie smears and cashews.  The ones with refrigerators stuffed with Blue Moon, curious lagers, obscure wines, limes (because the deli had no oranges) and Amstel Light. There's always Amstel Light.  The music has a bizarre mix of 80's hair band classics, johnny cash, led zeppelin and hipster bravado.  Leave your shoes by the door, please.  And remember: don't feed the cat.  

But those are the parties in this wonderful, wanderlust wonderland.  This magic island isn't real - didn't you know?  Did they not let you in on the secret?  And you thought Bill Murray really did crash that Bushwick Halloween Party.  No... it's all just a mirage - a cobbled illusion.  Really, if you focused the lenses a bit more, you'd find yourself on an over-stuffed poly couch dotted with cigaret burns, listening to Tom Waits and staring at a whiskey film glazing the bottom of a dentist spit cup. 

Just the other day, I asked a friend about the holiday parties that she planned to attend.  (oh, my poor worldly friend... stuck in the mire of middle america. )  She sighed and said that they don't compare to our old charades - really, our old dinner parties were the stuff of legend.  What? I asked, Is it punch & bagel bites?  No - more along the lines of Cool Ranch Doritos and Schlitz Beer.  The splurges threw in a keg.  And these were with business associates.  And I'm sure they listened to Mariah Carey's Christmas spectacular.  

But at least there's this: no matter where one lives or what one does, there's this opportunity to join together for a bit and feel a bit more vivid.  To glow in this holiday half-light and seem a bit more magical.  To think of others and thrill in their joys.  To have a legit reason to cover an entire flat or house or condo or studio or estate in glitter-struck chotskies.  To relish in overflowing corporate gifts (cured meats, i heart you).  To touch. To feel.  To live purely.  And to huddle by the fire and feel every bit part of a postcard - and to know that it's not posed but that its authenticity evolves from this abstract, intangible, unexplainable contentedness.  

And nothing really beats that.