“Welcome to the studio!” a small thin dark-haired woman said enthusiastically. She wore a short beige dress made of heavy lace. She looked like a doll. It was hard to tell her age: I filed that information away for future contemplation... wear short lace dress, look ten. Got it.
I was early, as usual. A tall older woman approached me, and we talked for about ten minutes. It took maybe 30 seconds to explain what my business was about. The rest of the time she swamped me with a description of Scientific Hand Analysis. I'm not even sure those words should be capitalized. What is it, you ask? I think it's akin to phrenology, astrology, and idiotology. Not certain.
People drifted in. All women. Huh. We arranged ourselves around some tables, set up in a horseshoe, facing a large blank wall on which was projected a pale PowerPoint slide. The seminar began. The slides remained pale and colorless because there was so much light in the room. The topic of the day was something about delegating tasks and getting organized. I can't remember exactly what it was called—and it only happened this morning. What can I say. I remember certain things and not others. For example, I remember how I felt when the seminar was over and the sales pitch began. I learned a lot from that part, mainly that if I ever use that tactic to sell my services, I hope you will take me out back and shoot me.
The young woman was definitely a pro, no doubt, and it was clear that her main motivation is getting money, lots and lots of money, preferably as she is laying by the pool while her “team” of minions is running around executing the tasks she has blithely delegated to them. She confessed, she thinks she's hilarious. I confess, I was cross-eyed with irritation after the first fifteen minutes of her presentation. I did a little reminiscing about my days as an instructor: Was I ever so annoyingly self-centered?
After the presentation, we went around the table introducing ourselves and handing around our business cards. Out of eleven people, six were coaches of some sort. Two did web design, and one was a marketing consultant. There was also a mortgage broker and a juice enthusiast. I sent around a stack of eighteen cards and got back nine. (That means two people didn't want my card. What's up with that?) I connected with a spike-haired web designer, and we made a commitment to meet next week for coffee. That's what I'm talking about! Networking!
This afternoon, as I was editing yet another chapter of the dissertation that won't end, I reflected on the strange energy that occurs in a roomful of women. Many of the attendees knew each other and entered the room boisterously, greeting each other with hugs and squealed hellos. I watched and listened, playing my familiar observer role. I felt like an alien, but that's nothing new. That is my normal state, especially in a group of women. I always feel like I don't quite belong. Maybe it's my mustache, I don't know. Or that I obviously don't care how I look.
The proprietors of the venue hold these events monthly, and apparently there is a membership group you can join. For a moment I considered it—only $99 per year! That's no bargain when you are an anti-social misfit. I have an erratic history of joining groups, especially groups of women. I was trying to remember what groups I joined in high school. I know there were a couple. I also know I didn't last long. I tried to play the game, but each time I flunked out (by choice) of each group I joined. Someone would pull out a guitar and start singing Neil Diamond songs. Someone else would start discussing periods and makeup. That would be it for me. A few minutes ago, I looked through my senior yearbook to see if I could find myself in any clubs or groups. I guess I managed to avoid all the photo days, because I was nowhere to be found. Was I really there at all? Debatable. It's been forty years, you can't really expect me to remember.
