I’m now in month three at my new job. Owing to the fact that, like me, some of them
are smokers, there are a couple of my colleagues who have had the pleasure of
experiencing what I like to call “comfortable me”...that doesn’t mean I’ve
farted in front of them or spent a few obvious moments fishing my knickers out
of my arse in an unladylike fashion (I’m not an animal!)...but it does mean that
they’ve seen me at the height of my nicotine high, whereby I have relaxed
enough around them to stop thinking before I speak and just say what’s on my
mind.
I'm not sure that these guys can be called the lucky ones, but they have witnessed me at my most natural, however for most of us, we tend to keep this side of us hidden until we're assured of acceptance from our new co-workers. In fact for most of us, when we start a new job, we plan for our first real social engagement
with colleagues as this is more often than not, when we'll let our real persona's loose. Nine times out of ten
we know it’s going to be the Christmas party, and that’s where we’ll drink, let
our inhibitions go and show our new work friends (oooh, fwiend...work fwiend!)
our true colours. That’s what I’d
planned for anyway, unfortunately, best laid plans, and all that...
Last week a social event was organised for my
department. It was earlier than planned
(as I was banking on the Christmas do), however I had a strategy! The company was very kindly paying for my
room, and I worked out that I could just about afford two glasses of wine at
hotel prices, before I’d have to switch to the diet cokes. I’d never make a fool of myself on two
glasses of vino, but it would be enough to loosen me up, and show my new work
pals how fun I was. It was not to be
though, as upon arrival at the hotel, it quickly became apparent, that the
company had also shelled out for a free bar.
Shit.
Now I can resist anything but temptation, and after a
large glass of Chardonnay I was loosening up nicely, just in time for the
buffet and pub quiz that had been organised.
Any rules I’d set myself in terms of “just two glasses” however were
quickly forgotten in favour of the warm squishy feelings that accompany
intoxication, and I’m not going to lie...I lost count of how many glasses I
actually had. This concerns me slightly,
as at my last workplace I gained the nickname Charlotte Church. I didn’t understand it for quite a while, and
it was eventually explained to me...apparently after a couple of drinks I get a
bit uncouth and think I can sing. In all
fairness I can actually hold a tune, so if drunken singing had been the order
of the evening, then I wouldn’t have been worried...unfortunately reality was
much worse than that.
I danced.
Now anyone who knows me, knows that I am not
coordinated, and dancing is definitely not my forte, however with enough
alcohol I do believe I can dance like
Beyonce, and I will insist on demonstrating this. I don’t know what time I arrived on the dance
floor, and I don’t know what time I left it...but I do know that the next day
my knees were struggling to keep me upright and mobile, so I think it’s safe to
assume that I was either a) there for a long while, or b) slut dropping. (I really hope it was the former!)
Now I could get hung up on worrying that I made a bit of
a tit of myself (all the photographic evidence suggests a number of people were actually positioned to ensure I stayed on my feet), but actually I’m pretty sure I make more of an arse of myself
when I open my mouth mid-nicotine-high...so instead I’m focusing on the fact
that there are about six people who I see in passing around the workplace, that
now stop to say hello and have a conversation with me. It seems the Chardonnay has helped me network
a little and I figure, if I had really been that embarrassing, those people
would be avoiding me like the plague rather than saying hello. Comfortable “me” made an appearance, and I
haven’t been sacked...so perhaps I should just be happy that I’m the way I am,
rather than wondering whether I’m a bit “too much” and if I should tone it down
when I’m in public.
I probably shouldn’t dance again though.
Well...at least not until I’ve really perfected my running man.
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