Funny Face

"Shimmering silver Christmas trees lined the lobby, emoting an elegant entrance to the magical land of Narnia."

It was an affair to remember.

I was euphoric; newly promoted at 27 years of age to the Management Board of the city’s hippest department store, after creating a series of advertising sections in the morning newspaper that were the talk of the town. My talent was that of ideas; creative ideas that saw sales surge. It was a dream come true. And to complete the picture of this Golden Girl’s world was my new home and new husband. Gregarious, gorgeous and glib, he provided the ying to my yang, as opposites seem to attract. Together our entrance into a room was audibly noticed by the silence that followed.

We seemed to have everything.

My promotion was a surprise. And although I was grateful for the new opportunity, and the accompanying pay raise, I was most grateful to be included on the invitation list for the Corporate Christmas Party. Now an A-lister, my handsome husband and I would see and be seen. We would charm our dinner companions with titillating table talk and softly smile when hearing the workplace wives whisper, “Who’s that?”

And then there’s the dress. Of course, he would be dashing in his tuxedo, and I would wear a beautiful, black slip dress, made of the softest silk. It was weeks away, and my anticipation accelerated as the days went by. I was the envy of my peers. He thought nothing of it. Another boring evening with my work friends; friends he had nothing in common with and did not even comprehend their love of working 12 hour days. Being in an office would make him cringe.No, corporate life was not for him. He was a free spirit, a man of his own making.

I waited.

The day came. Store scuttlebutt said the party would be fabulous. Booked at a downtown hotel, the retail group would occupy the Main Ballroom on the property’s mezzanine, a floor designated to meeting rooms. Of course being Christmas, there were several other parties being held that same evening. As we valet parked our new, navy Fiat, I combed my hair and freshened my lipstick. He jumped out and rolled his eyes.

“Shoot me now,” he thought.

Walking in, the atmosphere was electric. Shimmering silver Christmas trees lined the lobby, emoting an elegant entrance to the magical land of Narnia. The air smelled of cedar and cinnamon candles. Christmas carols played softly in the distance. People dressed in their holiday finest milled about, seeking directions to their appointed affair. The regal red carpeting led us to the grand staircase; the entrance to the festivities above.
We ascended.

As expected, there were several company parties in full swing filling the mezzanine. Ours happened to be in the first room. White table cloths, tuxedoed men, crystal chandeliers; the room glowed with candlelight and purred with cocktail chatter.

I was in Heaven.

The tables were numbered, and as we worked our way across the room, smiling and saying hello to all, we found our seats amongst the company’s elite. Seated at our table were familiar faces from Finance, Merchandising and Human Resources. Our table was on the side, close to the paneled partition that separated us from a rather boisterous bunch next door, whose party seemed world’s away from the sophisticated dinner at hand. Small talk transpired; trends, sales, holiday plans. Wine flowed freely. By the time the main course was served, chatter ceased. The group had worn thin the pleasantries, and couples tended to murmur in each other’s earnest ears.

Except for him.

The pounding in my head was only outdone by the pounding of the bass drum next door. Boom, boom, boom. The boisterous bunch were dancing, shouting, laughing. And then they were swaying, braying Y-M-C-A, and the floor began to shake. I knew they were wildly flailing their arms in the air as they tried to keep up with the lyrics. They were plastered, sloshed, wasted.

They were Insurance agents.

As our company Chairman stepped up to the podium to elegantly express gratitude to his team, my sullen spouse excused himself, and worked his way through the captivated crowd. As he slowly opened the ballroom doors, the music from next door grew louder. Now the party animals were doing the Hustle. They were crazed, pumping their paunches and gyrating to songs from "Saturday Night Fever." As the doors closed, the elegant party resumed as if someone released the pause button. He had escaped. The restrooms were across the hall, adjacent to the raucous riot next door.

I waited.

Five minutes. Seven minutes, Ten minutes. The Chairman concluded to a thunderous applause that almost concealed the sound of the ballroom doors bursting open, slamming against their respective walls. Deafening music from next door began brazenly blaring into the silent soiree. And there, leading a Conga line of twenty or so revelers, weaving their way through the candle lit tables of the open mouthed members of my Management Board, was him. Bending, kicking, head thrown back in glee. Insurance agents laughing, singing, bunny hopping in a wild frenzy, as they hung on for dear life to their crocked colleague ahead. Finally, after multiple turns and twists, they circled back and bunny bounced their way out of the room, leaving my newfound associates aghast.

Of course, for me, it was the beginning of the end. It was never mentioned again, at work or at home. It was done. There was nothing to say, nothing to explain, nothing to do.

I waited.

Until late one night, after the dinner dishes were done, and the house was still, I danced into the moonlight alone. The stars lighting the way to the wondrous world awaiting me.