Monday, December 27, 2004

Never, not in a million years, not in my most sinister nightmares, would I have imagined my return flight delayed. I’m just kidding, gentle reader, that’s a lie. Here I sit, at Gate C7, on a wintry evening, with no plane in sight. I knew it wouldn’t arrive on time, despite what the airline told me. My luck requires, damn near lobbies, that aircraft stop midair for 30 minutes or more. I suspect the crews on my flights raid the pantry for fermented peanuts before doing victory Immelmanns out of spite.

We’ve all seen news footage of tired travelers trying their best to sleep on terminal chairs and live off the bounty of vending machines. It’s a mental image far better left shelved than consumed, true, but what if you’re the haggard person dribbling Doritos over your boarding pass?

You could take the sinfully fun route and tear through the airport with nary an inhibition, whistling and punching other people in the groin while declaring you are, all security checkpoints aside, the bomb. That’s the naughty route, and do you really want to be tackled by spooks twice in one month?

Ours is a different path fraught with decency and eggnog. We’re going to talk about holiday parties tonight. In my mind, perhaps in yours as well, holiday parties often subscribe to predictable, sadly cynical arcs. You might ride the Family Party Arc, giddily so, and sit stuffed to the gills for hours on end, fending off screaming rugrats and explaining–for the fifth time, damn it–your job to a creepy uncle who replies by staring and scratching himself. Meanwhile, your father-in-law interrupts and ask why, so help him God, you still haven’t purchased a backup condo for his princess.

The Office Party Arc leaves very little to imagination, because your main goal would involve not vomiting on your boss.

The Friends Party Arc follows a different trajectory. The gathering starts off well enough with ample holiday cheer, in no small way enhanced by beer or nonalcoholic cider, and once again you line your stomach with too many cookies. As the witching hour settles over the apartment, however, a curious thing happens. If we transposed the witching hour to the Family Party Arc, you would doubtless be elaborating what precisely pfefferneusse is to your sleeping grandmother. But since you’re in the Friends Party Arc, you simply pass out from achieving the fabled BAC of 2.5 and wake up the following morning next to a complete stranger. You ask, “What the hell did I do last night, and who are you?” That would be your story.

Or would it? About a week ago I went to a holiday party expecting to leave after my regulation 13 minutes, yet I stayed for two hours. It was a fantastic party, tastefully done, and I met some genuinely interesting people. Heck, I even walked out with a business card, one that I didn’t want to eBay immediately. I don’t have a moral for this tale, as it’s not my intention to preach. The closest approximation, I suppose, would be to go. Just go. You might be pleasantly surprised.