Chapter Six
“So, what’s the problem…is it the money?”
“No, it’s not the money.” I pick up my Santa bobble head pen my mom shipped to my office. She always sends something festive to my work. I think she realizes if I open the package here then everyone will want to see whatever it is and thus I’ll be forced to display it. In this case a bobble head Santa, he is wearing a cowboy hat and has a lasso. It’s a Countrified Santa.
“Well then, what is it? Come on, Lauren, we’re not that miserable to be around.”
“Megan, it’s not that,” I say as I scribble on the yellow lined notepad at my desk. I don’t want to have this conversation while I’m at work. It’s bad enough sharing a wall with my coworker Leena, but for conversations like these, it’s almost as if her ears are against my phone’s receiver. I prefer using my headphones but Megan called me on my direct line which is connected to my black desk phone, not to my computer.
“Well then what is it?” Megan asks. The tone in her voice is harsh. I get it, I do. I ‒ rather we ‒ always come home for Christmas, stay until January 2nd, it’s our tradition, our thing. Spending time with our family etc. But this year I don’t want to go home. It’s not because of the money. I have money. I’m maxing out my 401k contribution and I have the little luxuries in life, like highlighted hair every six weeks and Starbucks whenever I want ‒ which is a lot. Maybe I should be cutting back on the frothy foam, especially with cookie central roaming around the office, every cubicle is filled with plates of the latest and greatest decorated cookies or store-bought candies. I can’t escape a nibble here or a mint there. I appreciate the sweetness of Mrs. Claus, but in no way do I want to have the appearance of something round and chubby. I need to figure out a game plan for avoiding those tasty treats. Especially with Leena. It’s almost as if she can sense my lack of self-control and takes pleasure in my sugar overdose downfall. Typical schadenfreude person. It couldn’t be any more obvious. But shiat, what can I do? I have a freaking sweet tooth. I clench my tummy, that’s right, do some ab workouts at the desk. Even if I’m only burning a few calories. I’m reminded of that silly phrase: muscles are made at the gym and abs are made in the kitchen, but for some reason squeezing my stomach feels good and like I’m doing something. Surely I must be burning some calories or even toning my abs.
I mean, I get it…I’m no Jamie Easton, but I’m definitely not Mrs. Claus. Definitely not Mrs. Claus. First of all, I’m single. All alone. Expected to have a blue Christmas without you I hum in my head. My blue Christmas is due to one cause. Jack. Damn. It sucks to be single and unattached. I’m not really on the hunt for a Mr. Claus, but if the younger, more svelte version of a happy jolly soul came knocking at my door (and obviously it would have to be my door, since I can’t imagine a guy coming down my chimney), well, let’s just say I might answer.
Who I wouldn’t answer to is Jack. Jack Walker. Jack Walker, Mr. All-Business-Wooed-Me-With-His-Pecans over Thanksgiving and then, two weeks later, was a no show. A no show. The guy stood me up at the airport. Not the movies, not a fancy restaurant, not the airport. As in, I’ll meet you at baggage claim, I’ll watch all the happy people greet their loved ones swinging them around in circles, handing over bouquets of flowers, joking about the airplane food or lack thereof until finally, finally, I was left alone, watching the luggage carousel circle round and round. An airport employee asked if my luggage didn’t make the trip. I nodded and walked away. That’s it for me and baggage.
No. I do not want to come home this year for Christmas. I do not want to have to deal with the questions about where’s Jack? How are things going with him? Did he come visit you? Because I don’t have the answer to any of those questions. And now, now I don’t want them. Just like him.
My computer screen would normally have a snowy scene, but now it has a tide washing up on shore. I’m pretending it’s actually summer time. The connection program we use is in the upper right-hand corner. I have several calls to take in my queue. Clients are waiting to hear what I have to say. Clients that are not going to stand me up, but are actually holding the line for me.
“Hey, listen, Megan, I really have to get back to work,” I say glancing at the phone cord, I want to twist it, but that will only remind me of him. This is something I don’t want to do, so instead I doodle little Christmas trees with lights on them. Candy canes hanging along the branches and at the top a star. This reminds me of how Jack called my grandmother a shining star, I close the spaces in between the star and it looks kind of like a dreidel. Which is really weird for a dreidel to be on top of a Christmas tree. I drop my pen and sigh. Even in my doodles I can’t escape Christmas.
“Fine, but we’re going to talk later about this,” Megan says. The buzzing of the dial tone rings in my ear.
I put the black plastic receiver down and count to ten in Italian, I like to count in Italian before speaking to my clients. They speak English, as do I, but I feel like counting in Italian really cheers me up and puts my vocal chords where they need to be, a pleasant yet in control of the conversation tone.
My finger hovers over the mouse and I’m about to make touchdown on a good solid click, when an instant message pops up on my screen. It’s my boss. Javier. What could he want? Shiat, I hope Leena didn’t tell him I was on a personal call. I can imagine her hearing my conversation ending and rushing over to his office. He actually has a real office. The rest of us have cubicles. Our walls are tall to make you think you’re in an office, except there is no real privacy. I mean, I
