Ever have one of those days that blows your confidence? Where you’re scheduled to do something you’re normally quite good at, but you just absolutely blow it?
It’s easy to say that the pandemic world has me feeling less of myself. Many of you might feel that way.
But really, some days I feel like I could bend steel with a glance and other days I feel like the world would be an easier place without me in it. Some days, that’s in the same day.
My confidence blow earlier this week? Public speaking.
(Hangs head in shame.) Once again, I’m remarkably ordinary.
Normally, I’m a good presenter. I make a point to know my audience, insert a bit of appropriate self-deprecating humor, and always constantly read the room so I know when/if I need to shift gears or alter the course.
It’s that last part I failed at on Monday. Reading the room.
I was doing a presentation for a grant application for which our HOA applied. This is the third year I’ve written the application and presented, so I knew it would be in front of a group of about 15 folks from all over the city who volunteer for this committee that helps fund neighborhood projects like block parties, clean-ups, and newsletters. Normally, the meeting was held in a conference room. Normally masks weren’t required.
Who has a rat’s ass idea of what’s normal anymore?
So this year, to properly socially distance the committee, we had to present in City Council Chambers, which is a large room. That didn’t really bother me. The room was totally empty; it would have been great if there had been 100 people sitting in the seats just to make the room feel less cold. But COVID ruined that, as it’s ruined lots of things.
When I walked up to the mic, my slides were ready to go, so I introduced myself and starting speaking, which was great until my glasses began fogging up. This meant I couldn’t see the committee members as I scanned back and forth across the large room, like I was watching a tennis match.
If was quickly apparent that I’d need to plow through this sans glasses, so I excused myself to pause and remove them. One might think this would be a booster since the panelists went from definitive humans to blurry, outlines that I would not have recognized as flesh had I not worn glasses into the room. I never realized until that moment how much I latch onto the eyes in the crowd. Seeing them seeing me is critical. It’s how I read the room and without the eye contact, I’m lost.
I could barely read the slide deck on the computer in front of me. My internal monologue was something along the lines of, “You can’t read 26 point font without your glasses, old woman?” I felt myself rushing. I felt my voice shaking.
I had some notes with stats scribbled on a little square of paper. Anyone care to guess how close I had to hold that paper to my masked face to read it? I was still rushing, I didn’t know where to look.
On the second to last slide, as I commented on the improved timekeeping for volunteer hours during the past grant cycle, a buzzer went off, so I said, “How appropriate that happened as I said timekeeping?” which got a few audible laughs, so they were listening or felt sorry for me. I’ll take it.
I made it through, albeit disappointed in myself and embarrassed for how I represented the community. I got myself a pity ice cream and went home. I stewed for a couple days, wondering why I didn’t think to wear contacts so the fogging of the mask wouldn’t have been an issue.
But then I wouldn’t have realized how important the eye contact and human connection is to me.
(Shakes fist at the Universe for the ways it teaches me.)
(Shakes fist at myself for being so hard-headed and needing the Universe to smash me with lessons and knock me down when I think I’m good at something.)
I wrote this years ago, but keep remembering it lately.
Home
There’s something very beautiful I hold deep in my chest.
It’s a picture of a picture of the place that I know best.
It’s warm when I am cold and cool when I am hot.
The best thing about this place is I know I’m loved a lot.
So if I’m ever doubting, or when I’m ever blue,
I take a breath and close my eyes,
It’s then I think of you.
Photo by Oscar Keys on Unsplash