At the apex of what I now recall as my all-time low, I was working for a company that did, among other ridiculous things, Christmas Grams. I liked to think of myself as a rather fashionable girl, but it was hard to make that claim when my legs were wrapped in candy cane tights and my shoes and ears were capped by points and jingle bells. Nevertheless, I was a college drop-out in New York City, and a job was a job.
I quickly got the hang of the job, and though I didn’t really care for singing, it really wasn’t that different from karaoke in a city so big–you weren’t likely to even run into these people again after you delivered the song and moved on to the next door.
Usually our assignments were in pairs, but as the Christmas season heated up, we had to cut down to singles to get all the jobs done. Uncomfortable at first, but as I said, you get used to it. Soon I was right at home, and you might even say I had a knack for it–I was actually starting to enjoy the job. For the most part, people didn’t care if you were a good singer; they just wanted to be entertained. People just like to see you try. So I began to try, and I found that getting those smiles and laughs was really rewarding. I began thinking that I should try my luck at acting again, only this time, in comedy. Life seemed to be looking up as Christmas approached.
My last day delivering Christmas Grams was on Christmas Eve. I got an assignment to an address that looked familiar to me, but, I didn’t think much of it, and I had plenty of deliveries to get done that day and no time to think about any one in particular.
Walking up to the stoop of that red-brick townhouse, I knew why it felt familiar, and a sudden panic consumed me as I knocked on the door, realizing too late that this was the house of my ex-fiancé’s father. I grabbed onto the wrought-iron rail, adrenaline rushing through my body, hoping that I was mistaking this townhouse and the identical one next door, contemplating running, but I knew I didn’t have enough time, when, before I could do anything, the massive oak door swung open.
A brief look at me, and my almost-father-in-law didn’t take the time to recognize who was under those red dotted cheeks and jingle bell hat, turning to alert the rest of the household to my cheerful presence. As the entire family, including my once-betrothed and his perky new girlfriend, scrambled to the door, faces began to look puzzled, and comprehension was not far behind.
During my panic, I had remained silent, stumbling for something to say, but never piecing an entire word together. I looked down at my card, it seemed ridiculous to sing to them about Christmas cheer and what a wonderful family they were, the message sent to them from Aunt Helen in Chicago. My body would not sing, would not move, would not communicate from my brain to the rest of my self.
Finally, I acted. Just as I heard my ex starting to figure it out–“Hey, Jennifer…”–I was down those red-brick steps and jingling down the street.
Needless to say, I have since left the Christmas Gram industry.