I work in one of those office towers. The kind where if my window opened (which it doesn’t), I’d be able to toss a tennis ball and easily hit the tower next door (which would likely prompt several calls to security).
That means when I’m not staring at my computer screen, I’m staring into the office of a man I’ve affectionately named Maurice. A hard worker, Maurice eats lunch at his desk. He swigs water (I guess) from a bright yellow jug throughout the day. And when he’s really feeling whatever he’s talking about, he steps over to his white board, and bounces on the balls of his feet as he illustrates his points with erasable marker (sometimes to the silent-but-evident eye-rolling of the people seated in his office, I might add).
Around December 1, I noticed a new trend. Several times a week, Maurice heads to the boardroom a few windows down, turns on the lights, and before you know it, others have joined him for a holiday pot luck of some sort. So far, I’ve watched people enjoy everything from breakfast pastries to take-out pizza.
As the holiday grows closer, the boardroom lights up even more often - with or without Maurice. On Wednesday, one woman brought her contribution in two long foil pans. I watched in fascination as she used some kind of kitchen torch to light the whole thing up. Was she melting cheese? Finishing off creme brulee? I was fascinated, and joined the people across the way clapping loudly in appreciation as she doled out slices on paper plates.
Like a soap opera addict, I can’t really stop watching. Sometimes, if something particularly interesting is going on, I’ll even provide a running commentary for my office-mates (they now bring headphones to work). But what all this voyeuristic eating has really done is expanded my waist line in a hurry.
I’m starving. These people are making me starving. Every time that boardroom light snaps on just above my screen, I start salivating. It’s all so very Pavlovian. I can’t think about anything but food.
When the people I actually do work with, in the building I actually do sit in, hosted our own actual pot luck on Wednesday, I gorged myself. I consumed – in no particular order – one vanilla cupcake, one Rice Krispie square, three shortbread cookies, one cookie from Lebanon (how can you turn down the chance to expose yourself to a different cultural tradition? My point exactly!), four little squares that definitely included some kind of Oreo icing mixture, and a whole lot of chips swathed in hot, creamy artichoke dip. I was reaching for a partridge in a pear tree but decided I’d best take a break. It was a long, indigestion-filled night – I’ll tell you that much.
The next day, I found myself riding up two different elevators just to attend a retirement part for a guy I’ve only met once. All because I heard it was being professionally catered. What’s become of me?
In all fairness to my lack of self-control – ‘Ti’s truly the season of over-eating. I’ve read all those articles on how to eat smart despite the holiday onslaught of sugar and carbohydrates. But my main reaction was: what’s a holiday without a belly that giggles like a bowl full of jelly, and a little egg nog to push it all down? That said, yesterday was my last day in the office (Thank God – my cholesterol couldn’t take anymore). And I really outdid myself.
There I was working diligently away, ignoring Maurice and his merry band of pot-lucking people. When what to my wondering eyes did appear – but the event girls (all gorgeous people who clearly don’t sample a lot of their offerings) and a few trays of leftover taco dip.
I’ll warn you, this is the part where it gets really ugly.
By that point, I didn’t even care what was on those trays – my thinking ran: it’s free, it’s fatty and I’m going for it. I jumped up (yes, literally) from my chair and turned toward the hallway whilst yelling over my shoulder “Caroline – the event girls have free food!” Which is when I met my demise. In my haste to consume yet more food despite not being hungry, I neglected that old familiar saying: look both ways before entering an office hallway.
I didn’t really know what I’d hit until I looked up from my spot on the industrial carpeting (yes, I actually crumpled to the ground from the impact). When what to my wondering eyes should appear this time, but a partner I email regularly, but who never knows my name when we find ourselves in the elevator or at the photocopier together.
Of course – you know the rest. “Geese, Amanda, you okay?” Ah yes. Now he remembers. Must be the magic of Christmas right there.
