I prepared. Really. Given my resources, I did my best to get ready. I rented a small conference room in a charming, hip, easily accessible location. I bought a new laptop to show my cool PowerPoint. I wrote and designed and printed and bound 50-page workbooks for each attendee. I ordered box lunches from a reputable health food store, along with a box of coffee. I cut and colored my hair. I tapered my black pants. I wore deodorant. In short, I did everything I could think of to be ready for my first teaching gig in over a year.
I invited a hand-picked audience of small business owners, all women, most of whom I had met at various networking events over the past four months. They all seemed interesting and competent, and I thought they would be willing to give me good feedback on my class in exchange for free admission, a free workbook, and free food. And don't forget the box o' coffee. The women represented a range of industries: professional coaching, web design, interior design, marketing, fitness, and landscape design. They all considered themselves marketers.
The terms of the rental agreement gave me only 15 minutes to pack everything in and set it up. It took me ten of that to figure out how to hook my laptop to the projector. Hence, I was about ten minutes late getting started (and still one attendee strolled in well after I'd begun). I never did set up my video camera.
Within moments I was sweating; for two hours I never stopped sweating. The space was too small. The table was too low. The laptop keys were weirdly flat. Coffee and electronics didn't coexist well (luckily her little Apple device escaped the worst of the spill). The food boxes all had bottles of water in them (no wonder the boxes were so heavy; I should have read the fine print). There was no creamer with the coffee. The air conditioner outside was intermittently loud, but I was too claustrophobic to shut the door.
Yet, like the experienced teacher I am, I soldiered on, trying to give them good information and keep things interactive and engaging. I don't think they knew that I was a sweaty mess. They haven't known me long enough to know that a personal meltdown is imminent when I take off my hat. Yes, I know, hard to believe, but it's true: I spent the entire three hours sans hat.
The final hour began with the coffee spill and from my point of view deteriorated from there. I managed to end the class on time and distribute the food boxes while mopping up coffee. The table became even more crowded as the attendees opened up the boxes, unwrapped roast turkey and harvarti cheese sandwiches, and uncapped little plastic dishes of kale salad and fresh strawberries. There was even a cookie. I was too sweaty to do more than open my flimsy plastic bottle of bland water. Sipping convulsively, I asked them my first feedback question: what did you learn today that you can apply to your business?
After that all I had to do was listen. I did remember to turn on my audio recorder; no way my brain could remain present in my body for more than a few seconds at a time. People said kind things; they offered praise. They offered constructive suggestions. After that first feedback question, they were off and running, dragging me along with them in their wake. These women are smart marketers, my perfect target audience. They anticipated my other feedback questions, giving me gems and nuggets and pearls and I, still sweating, tried to nod and look like I was listening. The praise swept quickly over me. The suggestions (which could have felt like criticism) swept over me too, but not as quickly. Nothing stuck. I found myself thinking, how soon can I wrap this up?
Toward the final half hour, the conversation devolved into a networking session, in which people eagerly offered to help another attendee who earlier had described a frustrating a marketing challenge she was facing. I was happy to let others in the group assume control. They turned their suggestion-making machine on her. I stopped sweating. I slowly and quietly eased into clean up mode, and eventually the group got the message. The introverted landscape designer fled as soon as she could, and I wished I could flee with her.
Finally, the extraverts moved toward the door. As the room emptied out, I began to feel more calm. My breathing eased up. I packed my stuff out to the car with a few willing hands. We said our goodbyes, and I was alone. Finally. At last. Alone.
And now I know something about myself that I didn't know before this class ended. Teaching face-to-face at the career college was a good gig for me while it lasted. I did it well, and the job made it possible for me to earn my doctorate. But teaching face-to-face now might not be such a good fit anymore. Maybe a bigger room would help, and more time to set up, and more practice. But the moment I knew I was headed for yet another pivot in my self-employment adventure was when I sat in my car and felt not pumped up and joyful for having connected effectively with an appreciative group of my peers but relieved that the event was over so I could go home and be alone.
I'm trying to see the value in the learning experience, even as the metaphorical branches seem to be getting shorter and thinner. I want to cling to twigs and not look down: The abyss beneath me (unemployment freefall) seems terrifying. But what if I use what I learned about myself to design a new strategy, away from face-to-face teaching toward some kind of online teaching vehicle? Maybe I'll find my fit if I let go of the short branches. Deep breath, leap, cyberspace, here I come.
