sparkling shame
A few years ago when I was fresh out of college and a week or so into my first career-focused job, I found myself standing in the board room of my new workplace holding a champagne flute filled with Prosecco and garnished with a single raspberry, toasting a departing colleague who was leaving the company after many years of service.
The usual staples of such an occasion were all present: the card we had all signed; the Brown Thomas gift card we had all clubbed together to buy; the charcuterie board that for some reason always includes a handful of grapes that everyone ignores; and of course, the flutes of Prosecco.
The concept of day drinking at work in front of my employer was both foreign and disconcerting, especially since I had rushed out the door that morning without eating breakfast, but since a glass was ushered into my hand at my colleagues’ insistence, I acquiesced and said “I’ll just have the one”.
In between bouts of small talk about the commute, the weather and how the weather affects the commute, I managed to find respite in the corner of the room as half-hearted platitudes were uttered by those who felt compelled to “say a few words”.
“You’re their problem now!”
“Finally we can get some work done!”
“Send help… tell the world what you saw here!”
Already feeling the effects of the prosecco on a near-empty stomach, I decided to sneak back to my desk, eat my lunch in silence and continue my work.
I stopped off at the office kitchen to wash my champagne flute, put it away and grab my lunch from the fridge. I stood at the kitchen sink with the water running, waiting for it to warm up. As I stood idle, two of my colleagues walked in.
“Sick of us already?!”
“Surely we’re not that bad!”
I was new to this kind of mid-level workplace banter and decided I ought to get some practice in. Keen to respond with as much haste and wit as possible, I misguidedly decided I would make a joke about "washing my flute".
I knew this was a risk but the pay-off would be worth it, I thought. However, through the mist of new-job jitters and the 1.5 units of alcohol and 17 units of Lidl boursin that were coursing through my veins came a response that will visit me every night in my dreams until my final moments on this side of existence…
“I’m washing my mickey.”
The feeling that ensued transcended embarrassment. I’d call it mortification but it’s only mortification if it comes from the Mortification region of France. What I experienced was merely sparkling shame.