Why hello ladies and gentlemen and any random hallucinations that might be accompanying you today! I hope everyone has had an absolutely smashing Wednesday (as opposed to one that makes you want to smash things)!
All of you have been so lovely providing me with comments of support and interest in "Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus," so my publisher and I agreed that we should indulge anyone who might be curious about its content.
What follows is a chapter plucked from the book itself, like the frosting flower on a child's birthday cake (though with less confectionery gore).
34.
DANCE LIKE EVERYONE IS WATCHING
Uma Thurman has been credited with
saying, “Boredom is the mother of invention.”
We should not only listen to her
because she is an incredible actress and can pull off a white, stretchy, dress
phenomenally, but because she is right. However, I would like to add that not
only
does boredom breed innovation, it can also be the harbinger of disaster.
I don’t sit still well. I’m kind of
a ball of muscle bound energy, and even as I type this I am using my foot to
tease a kitten. So putting me in one spot for long periods of time works about
as
well as trying to contain a wolverine on Red Bull inside a cardboard box.
At one time, a job I had involved traveling around and giving short
presentations on a service the group I worked for had to offer. These were
presentations aimed at local businesses in the
hopes of getting them to jump on the bandwagon and support the community
initiative my employers were putting forth.
This meant I got dressed up in a suit, did my little Vanna White shtick and
then high-tailed it to the next place all the while praying that everyone was
running on time.
The day in question had been a long
day. I had given 6 or 7 of these presentations, and the last group I was supposed
to speak to was a counseling firm with a staff of more than 30 people. The
head counselor there had requested I come in and speak during their staff
meeting so that everyone could be present.
I showed up at my allotted time,
and was told by the receptionist that things were running a little behind and
that if I wanted to sit in the room right outside the conference room,
they’d call me in in a few minutes. I stood in the lobby, staring into nothing,
because that was what this room was: A white little box of nothing.
An overhead speaker blared out some
salsa music, and I started to tap my foot to the beat. The room literally had
no decorations and one, very uncomfortable looking, chair. The minutes dragged
by.
After 5 minutes, my foot tap turned
into a hip wiggle.
After 10 minutes, the hip wiggle
turned into some small dance steps.
After 20 minutes, I had given up at
containing myself and was full-blown dancing in this tiny waiting area.
Now, I must explain, I don’t dance.
I have a tendency to waltz like one of my legs is shorter than the other, turn
a tango into a new sport that involves tackling and somehow make hip-hop look
like a full body dry heave.
I have had one salsa dancing lesson
in which the instructor suggested, “I spend my time doing other things.” So,
whatever I was doing in the waiting area, was probably not something graceful,
rhythmic or even remotely artistic.
The door finally opened, and I immediately stopped, straightened my suit jacket
and put on an air of sophistication and poise. I then stared confusedly at the
man, who was red-faced with tears streaming down his cheeks as he half-said
half-choked out, “We’re ready for you now.”
I entered the room to find the
entire staff assembled, all looking quite a bit like the man who had come to
retrieve me. The room had two TV’s mounted to the walls, and the content of the
screen looked very familiar.
Then it hit me, the tiny little waiting area had a security camera, and I had
just done a one-man show for over 10 minutes set to crappy elevator salsa
music. I looked at the screens for a beat, then looked back to the room full of
strangers who had just gotten their own personal show, and bowed. The room
erupted into applause.
So what slivers of knowledge can be
tweezed from the finger of stupidity?
1. Never assume you’re alone. This
may sound paranoid, but if paranoia saves you from utter embarrassment, then be
as paranoid as you like. Wear a tin-foil hat if it helps.
2. If you’re going to fail, at least
do so in a way that makes 30 other peoples’ meeting that much more entertaining.
