The Plight Before Christmas
Kate Stewart
For my family, who keeps me grounded. I love you dearly.
.
.
.
.
And…after twenty-five books, I think it is finally time to acknowledge the asshats that broke my heart. Thanks for the ammo.
LISTEN TO THE PLIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS PLAYLIST AS YOU READ
Fa la la la la, la FUCK MY LIFE.
“Congratulations, Stuart,” I grit out, tapping my jingle-bell-covered plastic wine glass against his.
“That sounded really sincere,” amusement drips from his timbre as he shoots me a sideways glance, “but thanks, Whitney.” Side by side, we scan the escalating spectacle of our overindulging co-workers. Internally, I begin to place bets on those most likely to do some shame walking in the morning. My lips lift when my eyes land on Sophie, who appears to be in the midst of an intimate conversation with Jonathan, a man she’s pined for since he joined the firm a year and a half ago. They’re tucked into a corner, their posture suggestive—his more than hers—and though I can tell she’s trying to keep her cool, she’s glowing, her expression a mix of elation, shock, and desire. Despite the slight lift of my lips and my inner ‘you go girl’ chant, I can’t help but address the animosity for the man standing next to me, which takes precedence as my blood continues to simmer. Taking a sip of my wine, I let it rest on my tongue a full ten seconds in an effort to stop myself while the high road is still within reach. It’s the hard swallow of more than the wine that has me exiting to basic bitch street.
“We both know I deserved it. I worked the overtime. I landed the biggest account and ran the most successful campaign of the year.”
“There’s no I in team, Collins,” he smirks into his cup.
“Ah, but there is one in ass-kisser.”
“Whitney, Stuart, are you two playing nice?” Our boss, Rich, saunters up to us, looking every bit the business Santa with his snow-white hair, prominent bulging belly hanging over his suit slacks, and beet red cheeks due to his holiday party indulgence. Forcing a smile, I flash all of my teeth as if Rich didn’t drive an axe through my future when he announced Stuart would be the new Senior VP of marketing.
“I was just congratulating him,” I retort evenly.
“She did,” Stuart assures Rich as he speeds down the high road while pushing his glasses up his sleek brown-tinted nose. Well, maybe his nose isn’t brown, but his personality repulses me. Okay, he’s mostly a nice guy, some might say saintly, but he is an ass-kisser—I stand firm on that. Stuart is also an avid golfer, which gave him an advantage over me because Rich is his preferred golfing buddy, and the two have been gracing the office with twin shit-eating grins and matching sunburns since early spring. Their long ‘lunches’ and ‘Stepbrother’ karate in the basement bonding have made me the odd woman out. As much as I would like to believe sexism has become less frequent in the workplace, Rich is a prime example of why it still exists. Rich is old enough to have been wet behind the ears during the ‘Mad Men’ era, which means I was screwed before I ever earned my spot in the running for VP.
It was a hundred percent a boy’s club move that he got the position due to their bromance and Rich’s belief that the cock wielding man standing next to me is a better choice for the position. While I worked endless hours wooing the clients and spearheading the campaigns, Stuart took off at precisely six pm every night—even during crunch time—pulling the family first card.
As if that’s an excuse.
Okay, maybe the fact that he’s a youth minister and coaches in an inner-city program is an excuse to leave early a few days a week, but there are other days of the week he could have been at the office, working the hours I work.
Even if he insists he has to get home every night to his pregnant wife—a psychiatrist who specializes in helping army veterans integrate back into society after deployment—there’s no excuse.
Fuck Stuart.
Just because I’m on regular birth control, and don’t have a golf swing, doesn’t mean I’m not worthy.
I’m just…independent.
I don’t need a family or a selfless purpose outside of work to be a staple in my community. In addition to my ridiculous work ethic, I do, on occasion, bring coffee into the office. And I’m a believer of sorts. I just don’t believe that waking up at 7 a.m. on Sunday cements my commitment to the man upstairs.
Besides, I need my sleep to be able to work the hours Stuart doesn’t.
Trying my best to maintain my smile and nod when it’s appropriate, it dawns on me that I may be going to hell for this line of thinking.
I’m resentful at the moment because the last three weeks have been hell on earth. More recently, due to the announcement that Mr. Perfect, golf playing, #lifegoals, family man, and upstanding citizen has just snagged my promotion and reason for living. This news only confirmed that my losing streak wouldn’t end anytime soon.
Anyone who’s had my recent run of luck would be feeling a bit acrimonious and stabby, especially after the last few minutes of hearing how deserving Stuart was of the position. It was the bitter freaking maraschino cherry on top of the shit sundae I’ve been shoveling down for the last three weeks.
More resentment seeps in as I eye the spacious vacant office behind the two men congratulating each other for being able to spell their names when they urinate. An office I’ve pined and busted my ass for since I started at the firm. For years, I’ve strived to be at the top of my field, to be recognized. But as of late, life has pulled all the punches, the most recent to the throat.