Well, I did it. Or rather, my zit and I did it. We got up and gave our marketing presentation to a group of 100 people. For those math buffs out there, that’s 200 eyeballs. All staring expectantly at me and my flesh colored bump.
I was doing fine until I realized there was no podium. It was just me, a microphone, a glass of wine, and a projector. Have you ever tried to hold handwritten notes and a microphone and gesture at a slide show while guzzling wine? Mmmyah. After 10 seconds I ditched my notes and ad-libbed.
I don’t remember anything after that. Anything.
Chuck was there. He said I spoke for 21 minutes, which was shocking to learn. What the fuck did I ad-lib about for 21 minutes? If I hadn’t seen the pictures, I’d swear aliens came down and abducted me during my intro.
Oh yes, there were pictures. I made the Mulletville rag. See?
The good news is that I learned something invaluable about public speaking: It’s a transient beast. Worrying about it is stupid. Half the people in the room probably forgot about me midway through my speech—right about the time they realized the linguine was giving them gas or they’d forgotten to feed their dog. I bet if you went to their homes right now, knocked on their doors and said, “Can you tell me a little about Mrs. Mullet’s presentation?” they’d say “Who the hell is that?”
I don’t often reference Dr. Phil because he’s turned into a self-promoting, crass, sensationalistic manbot, but I once read something his dad said, and it’s really stuck with me:
"You wouldn't worry about what people thought of you if you knew how infrequently they did."
Bingo! Essentially, I was addressing an empty room.
And more good news: According to the February issue of Psychology Today, the fact that my pimple was on the left side of my face was my saving grace. I quote, Don’t worry about that zit on the left side of your face; the right side is the one people notice most. Why? “Primates innately look first at the top left of their visual field. Once identity is established, why keep going?”
Mammoth-sized zits and social anxiety. Why keep going, indeed? Tomorrow’s post: How to make hand puppets out of your leftover lasagna and pantyhose.
About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.