The Office Party
Once fun, now...home, please.
I used to be good at parties: relaxed, an easy schmoozer.
Post-pandemic, I’m not sure what I am, or what anyone else is, for that matter.
Sam’s office party was the other night, in a cool bar on the top floor of a hotel in New Haven. While I wasn’t excited about going, I saw it as a chance to ditch the sweatpants and, beer in hand, I could work the room in my customary way.
We arrived and I was immediately overcome by that introvert at the middle school dance feeling. I tried to make small talk and discovered that, like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, I’d rusted. What was something to talk about? “How are you?” seemed lame, but it was all I had, unless I remembered that the person I was talking to had a dog or a grandchild. I wasn’t alone in this. We were all clunky. Conversations were mishmashes of oversharing and surface skimming, frightening ourselves with sudden candor, then falling awkwardly silent.
Thankfully congratulatory speeches had to be made and champagne handed out, and having the on-with-the-show attention on someone else was a huge relief. Applauding politely gave me something to do with my hands. Then, it was time to leave.
I couldn’t wait to quit smiling and stop paying attention. In the car, Sam said, well, that went well, and who knows, I guess maybe it did, but I was just happy to turn myself off. On the drive home I stared into passing houses, incandescent boxes humming with life separated by swaths of winter night, and god help me, I couldn’t wait to get through the dark streets and back into my own.