The coop space is in a half-empty industrial park out on a semi-rural road, which means oodles of free parking and no traffic. Inside is a suite of offices formerly occupied by a solar manufacturer (bellyup? I don't know, didn't ask). The anchor tenant in the new coop is a security firm. During the presentation, young men in security guard uniforms marched stolidly past the open door. I bet some of them are proud graduates of the career college that used to employ me.
Before the presentation began, the office manager, a giddy pale girl with brown hair and an annoying giggle, took the little crowd of networkers on a tour of the space. Apparently a bare handful of entrepreneurs has signed up so far: lots of cubicles occupied only by empty "hot desks." I could have access to one of those random desks for only $275 per month. For that sum, I would also get my very own mailbox (not a PO box), access to a really nice printer/copier, and use of several conference rooms and classrooms. If the location weren't so far away (and if I weren't watching every penny slip through my clenched fingers), I would consider signing up. With all those security guards roaming the halls, I would certainly feel safe, out there in bumf--k Gresham.
After the tour, we settled into some uncomfortable plastic chairs in the main classroom space. According to the thermostat it was 77° in the room, a refreshing change of climate from the 92° heat outside.
The presenter noticed no one was sitting in the front row. “Someone should sit in the front row, or else I'll remove the chairs,” he warned. He was an oddly shaped man, with his jeans belted tightly around his bulging middle, longish droopy brown hair and glasses... and what I think might have been cowboy boots.
I was in the third row. “What are the benefits of sitting in the front row?” I asked, trying to be funny but probably sounding snarky. I started to pick up my stuff.
“You'll be closer to me,” he replied. “It will be more fun.”
I didn't have the gumption to tell him neither one of those sounded like benefits to me. But I moved anyway, and so ended up the only person in the first row, about three feet from the lectern. Two people were in the second row, sitting five chairs apart. Three people were in the third row, each two chairs apart. A couple people sat in the last row, also not together. Clearly, this was an anti-networking group: We'd managed to spread out among the chairs with at least two chairs between each of us.
The presenter fixed us all with a stare I recognized from many years in many classrooms: Uh-oh, the teacher is getting ready to wax pompous. I buried my attention in my journal, feeling a little too close to the lectern and the somewhat odd man who lurked around it. Wait a minute, no fancy slide show? no handouts? no music and light show? no dancers?... sigh. I guess after the AMA events I'm a little spoiled. “How many of you are introverts?” asked the presenter.
Of course, I raised my hand, not too high, but high enough to be seen; I didn't want to seem like a grouchy student. I didn't turn around to see how many raised their hands, but I would have bet more than half, judging by how desperate most of us seemed to be to carve massive personal space out of the room.
“I bet I have personally shaken the hand of at least 5,000 people in the past ten years,” the presenter said proudly. Dude. Clearly an extravert. Any introvert would have drank the funny kool-aid long before they got to 500.
The evening wore on. Where's the frocked and bearded emcee, I wondered? Where's the funny dude in the purple velvet jacket? The über meta-ness of being at a networking event about networking wore off and turned into an über grind. I did my best to make occasional eye contact with him, so he wouldn't get discouraged, and while I doodled in my notebook, I plotted my strategy to hold my own networking event, a real networking event, one from which the introverts come away feeling invigorated and hopeful instead of weak, morose, and despairing.
Stay tuned.
