- By girly-d
- On 03/12/2017
- 0 comments
It's my works Christmas Party in exactly eight days.
I'm dreading it.
Not just because I get to rub shoulders with the woman behind the bar who hates my guts because I had a fling with her ex, or because I need to get all glitzy and glam and I don't have anything in my wardrobe that even comes close to being either, it's mainly because I'm shit at socialising these days, coupled with the fact that I'm guaranteed to bump into lots of random people that I haven't seen for over a year who last saw me making a show of myself in various locations in town because I had a drinking problem back then and I shouldn't really have been allowed out by myself.....
So, in case you were wondering, no, I'm not feeling festive every time that I think about it. I'm feeling sick.
I'd rather pull my eyes out with a fork than put myself through this.
Because I'm not just paranoid that someone will see me. I'm certain, and paranoid that someone will see me. And I would put money on it being some random creepy guy that I've kissed, or (as is a distinct possibility) that I've slept with, who just can't wait to see me squirm when I see him again.
If I even know what said person looks like. Because that too is a distinct possibility. And I'm aware that I am painting a shameful picture of myself here. But back then my life was shameful. And one of the million and one reasons that I moved away and didn't go back.
My boss will be there. And every single person I work with. Bar one person here, who I dated briefly and confided in, no-one knows anything about me. They just think I'm the quiet girl who lives in the caravan with no life and no friends to speak of.
They don't have a clue about the skeletons jostling around for space in my closet. Mainly because my life, how I live it now, or how I lived it then is absolutely none of their business.
But the town that I'm talking about is small. Everyone seriously knows everyone. And what they don't know they make up....with all kinds of bells on. So it takes just one person to see me, and to say the wrong thing, and I'm fucked.
My new, carefully worked for and bloody hard-earned reputation will be gone in a millisecond, and the new town where I live will have some much longed for scandal and gossip injected into it and before I know it I will be on the move again.
It really is that serious.
Because I can't be whispered about or pointed at or laughed at again.
And I really don't want to move for what would be the sixth time in a year.
So I'm predicting that I'm going to be ill that day.
Gastric flu or food poisoning should do it. Although I'm prepared to exhibit symptoms of the madagascan plague if thats what it takes to get me out of a night of guaranteed pure, unadulterated, hell on earth.
So this way it's a win win.
I don't get exposed as the person that I used to be, which means that I'm happy.
And my arch enemy from behind the bar gets to tuck into my suddenly "surplus to requirements", three course meal as well as her own....which means that she'll be happy too. Because there is absolutely no way on earth that she got an arse that size from counting the calories....