So it’s about 7PM and my friend Tom is calling me from a very high-end work related holiday party. It’s at the top of the 666s in NYC, and since his wife couldn’t make the party he wants me to come as his guest. I’ve been telling Tom for a couple of days that I just can’t make it. I’m at my year-end and I’m buried to my eyeballs in work. Tom makes one last attempt. He tells me that they have “Shrimp the size of the palm of my hand”, and Champagne is flowing like Niagara Falls…I shouldn’t miss this event.
With considerable angst, I finally agree with Tom that I should go to the party, and I do. (I’m so weak)
I qualify this move one last time. I say are you sure this is going to be all right? Tom says sure…just when you get to the base of the building, tell security that you’re me…then call me right away and I’ll meet you at the top of the elevators. I ask why do I have to be you? Why can’t I be me…is there something wrong with me…outside of the obvious. I’m told that I’m worrying too much about small details...and to just give him a call when I get to the base of the building and that when I get to the top, Tom would usher me in. (I rationalize that even if I’m caught, how much hard time could I do for crashing a Christmas party…but then again my hair…what’s left of my hair, is blonde; I wouldn’t last long in jail.)
After switching multiple elevator banks, I finally get to the top. Tom is waiting. I’m moved quickly past the welcome desk, a nametag is slapped on my chest, and I enter an extremely cool party that I have no business being at…on a couple of levels. The prehistoric size shrimp are still roaming the floor, and much to my delight really good champagne (as least it tasted really good) is flowing like a soda fountain. (If there is one drink that can hurt me more than most, it’s Pagne – see my next blog on Why I gave up drinking.)
So now I’m in 7th Heaven. I’m juggling monster size shrimp, consuming mass quantities, and incorrectly assuming everyone is appreciating all of the jokes I’m telling. This becomes painfully apparent when the person throwing this party stops by the small table that Tom and I are sitting at. Again, the party I have no business being at. She says hi to Tom, introduces herself to me and asks who I am…
Well…after our conversation was over, Tom looks at me and gives a bit of Monday morning quarterback advice. He says, “All you would have needed to say was, “Hi, I’m Steve, I work for XYZ Company, nice to meet you.” Unfortunately, I didn’t say that. By that time, my thinking cap was on a little crooked, and I decided to take another path. Instead, I completely misjudge the lady’s capacity for humor, look her straight in the eye and say, “I’m Tom’s Significant Other!”
Her response was more physical than verbal. The best way to describe it was she jumped a bit, almost as if she had mistakenly sat on a hot coal. Very soon after that she excused herself and Tom imparted his thoughts about my choice of words. Security never showed and we had a more subdued remainder of the party. I suggested to Tom that he might want his name tag back.
To this day, Tom reminds me on an annual basis how he no longer gets an invitation to that party.
