DECEMBER 13TH, 2017

I had some bandwidth this afternoon and I wanted to share an experience I had with you as I conclude my time at (unnamed corporation), where I've happily and lucratively worked for the last 10 months.

It's a company that celebrates 4 PM departures and abusively generous 'personal day' policies. It's a company that encourages their Executives to wear dry-fit polos to business meetings and to hire multiple administrative assistants to manage their 8-4 schedules. Suffice to say, It's a company that takes Christmas (note: not “the holidays”) very seriously.

So here we are, 12 days before X-day. Desks are decked in plastic holly. Though it's Wednesday, people are already wishing each other farewells. "Enjoy your break!," they chime. (A quick check of the office portal indicates that the last day of work is December 22nd, a whopping week and a half away.)

Nonetheless, The END OF YEAR LUNCHEON (caps not an editorial move) was a hold on my calendar from 11 AM to 1 PM today.The invitation noted that the leader of the department (see dry-fit executive) would provide meat, breads, and assorted condiments from Honeybaked Ham as a base to this meal. Other members of the department were invited to bring their favorite side dishes to share. Something about the font choice (copperplate gothic, all caps, in a festive-but commanding burgundy) told me this was an expectation rather than an invitation.

Let me pause for a second here. As an intern for this company, I've been given far more than my due. I've been included in high-level projects and paid handsomely. I've been given a schedule that allows me to send lengthy notes to my friends from my personal Gmail account at 3 PM. I have my own beige cubicle here with my own professional name tag and my own extension number. When I sneeze, there ensues a chorus of "God Bless Yous." And He does. I've had it pretty good.

Who am I to sniff at this invitation for holiday camaraderie? Am I so much a Grinch that I can't don a festive ensemble and bring a treat to share with the people who have given me so much in my last ten months?

I am. I forgot about this event entirely until the hour before its start. Begrudgingly, I leave my beige post at 10:22 and drive to a nearby Trader Joe's.

I am overwhelmed by the holiday spirit of this store. After a sensory-overloaded search, I come across what might be the best item in the entire store. It is a holiday sampler of chocolate caramels. I fall immediately in love as it combines my love of surprise and intrigue with my love of Trader Joe's chocolate caramels. The flavors range from the whimsical (Strawberry Black Pepper) to the patriotic (maple, in case you've forgotten that I'm Canadian) to the irresistible (a known whore for butterscotch). It is $5.99 and wonder how I'll bear to part with it when the clock strikes 11. I make my transaction and return to work. It's in my arms, but I already ache as if it's gone.

It is 11:38 AM. I have a lot of anxiety about socializing sober and abandoning the chocolates but I steel myself, donning a sweater and a fake smile, and head back to the makeshift conference room cafeteria. I comfort myself with the promise of at least one caramel during the party (please oh please let it be fig orange). I mentally draft a few topics of conversation if cornered for conversation by a coworker. I am ready.

What I see next is a cornucopia I can hardly describe. Every particleboard surface of that room is adorned with food. There are meats, yes, but also three kinds of mayonnaise to accompany them. There are butter and potato creations whose decadence feels reckless rather than celebratory. (I hallucinate the jingling of the chef-admin's novelty sweater as they shrug and say, "what can you do? it's the holidays!".) There are no fewer than three miniature crock pots. This is a Hunger Games District 1 event.

I fill my plate greedily, hastily. There are two other employees in the room that are grazing the cheese and cracker table engaged in warm conversation. I go mostly unnoticed. It is me and the meat. I go for ham on a croissant and every mayonnaise available. I add salad as a second thought. It is romaine and tasteless and is the only thing here that was made without love. The box of chocolates is still tucked under my arms.

I move quickly because I know that more employees will trickle in and expect to hear about my holiday plans. I'm not a hermit, per se, but I do prefer avoiding social interaction with coworkers when possible. My keyboard is basically a crumb catcher for that reason.

I had fully intended to leave the caramels on the table of cookies and cakes and monopoly-sized box of baklava as I left the room. I really had. The table was right next to the door, so I had been trying to spend as much time as possible with the box before having to release it to the feast. But something came over me, Reader.

Plate in hand and box under arm, I marched out of that room as a whole person with my clandestine caramels still in my possession.

Triumph.

I write to you from my beige hideout. The meat sweats are about to overtake me. I feel an afternoon nap coming on. With a final exertion, I reach into my purse where I've stowed the clandestine caramels and pull one out.

Toffee, I think.

If it's not, I'll know. I'll compare it to one of the others in the box which is now mine and mine alone.

Sincerely,

The Grinch

P.S.: Yes, I could have bought another box. Of course I could have. It was irresponsible not to buy another box, as this is an "extremely limited edition" product (per the Trader Joe's website) and there might not be another opportunity. It was a mistake and I am so sorry.