Every Day is a Holiday for Some

by Molly Anne Blumhoefer

I thought about not going, but I knew I had to show my face, to pretend. It was workplace politics. I sat with more than sixty people in concentric rings around a large conference table for a holiday celebration. We ate potluck foods from plastic plates on our laps: deviled eggs, green chile stew, potatoes, vegetables, salads, beans, tamales, cookies and pies.

I limited my meal to what appeared to be store bought or from a restaurant, as I silently judged, so many of these people have dirty kitchens. I imagined grime covered countertops and sticky refrigerator handles. I imagined cute mice stuffing their faces with biscochitos and red-frosted butter cookies and their little poops falling into baskets of the, “Did you try my homemade…?”

I wanted to respond to every smile, question, and blessing, “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. We don’t know each other.”

We worked adjacent, or in the occasional small group. To me, that didn’t count enough to eat from their homes, from the same hands that, probably some hours prior, purchased intentional, “ugly sweaters” for a competition. Some had pet hair matted to them, as if they went to a party over the weekend and hadn’t changed. I looked into their eyes and thought, you are poisoning all of us; you are unsafe for me to know more.

When we finished eating from secret homes, it was apparently time for something very special, as one of the upper echelon managers walked to the front of the room. She signaled for a man, whom I had never met, to join her. He had a guitar case next to his chair that he lifted with a proud look about his eyes and surrounding his lips; it fell all the way off his chin.

Oh shit, I thought; what the fuck is about to happen? Hold on. Calm down. Maybe it will be good. I like music. Everyone likes music. This is a work party. He will probably play something benign like Frosty the Snowman. That would be hilarious. I will sing along just to freak out the people who do know me.

Instead—

The manager explained healthy narcissism, “I have been taking singing lessons. I am so happy to have this opportunity.”

We were captive. She was our captor. She had something wild in her gaze, like rapture.

Oh shit! Oh fuck! I thought. My first impression was correct.

Then the man unleashed his instrument and started playing a beautiful melody. It was familiar. I loved it. I loved it so much for a few seconds.

Then in a poor operatic voice the manager belted out, “Silent night, holy night, all is…”

My heart began to beat harder than normal. I could feel it in my throat. I thought that people could see it. My eyes darted around the room. I expected someone to protect her, to yell, “Hey! Hey! Stop! You’re going to get into trouble with HR!”

But no one said anything. I wanted to run. I wanted to take others with me. But as I continued to search the room for my feelings, all I found were people with smiling watery eyes, crow’s feet even deeper than mine. They had red and green frosting in the corners of their mouths, cinnamon on their noses.

I saw crosses hanging from their necks and thought, were those there before? My heart thumped harder. My breaths repeated, double-time.

My armpits sweated through my t-shirt that said, “Not a hugger;” I had it made specifically for these kinds of gatherings—my ugly way of reminding male squeezers that my body is not theirs. I spotted one of them. He smiled widely in my direction. Fuck, I thought.

I looked around the room again. I could not believe I hadn’t seen it before. Everything was suddenly in my periphery. Everything was clear. Everything was bright, too bright. I had a new thought; every day is a holiday for some. I repeated it like a mantra. Every day is a holiday for some. Every day is a holiday for some. I then remembered, you don’t have to listen.