Yesterday was my first opportunity to meet other members of the organization. Let's call this organization the Oldsters. I drove to Tigard in lovely sunny, windy, cold fall weather, puttering in the slow lane while trucks and SUVs dodged around me. As a former school bus driver, I have learned highway patience. When some large vehicle is snuffling up my tailpipe, I try not to make any sudden moves. Eventually if I slow down slowly, they will dart around me and floor it. I'm happy to see their dust. I don't compete while driving.I arrived calm and intact thirty minutes early for the 11:00 a.m. meeting. I try to find the balance between being too early (pathetically overeager) and just early enough (casually confident). Achieving this balance sometimes requires sitting in my car watching the clock. It's a skill I have gained after years of fine-tuning. I'll send you the syllabus if you are interested.
Anyway, at the precise moment, I skittered to the front door, buffeted by blowing leaves. First stop, the restroom, of course, because, you know. I found the meeting room around the corner. The tables were set up lecture-style, with a clear space in the center for the speaker. A generic PowerPoint title slide glowed on the screen at the front of the room. A dozen or so oldsters, mostly men, milled around chatting.
An older gal with glasses and fluffy gray hair rushed over to me and introduced herself as Veronica. I extended my hand and she took it and kept it. I tried to get it back, but she had a firm grip. I grinned and nodded as she looked deeply into my eyes and told me how nice it was to meet me, so nice, awfully nice, great, in fact, so great. Later, after her plaintive pitch for volunteers to help on understaffed committees, I realized her enthusiasm wasn't about me specifically but about the prospect of having more help.
Another young woman came in immediately after me. I'd like to think I qualify as a young woman, but actually, I was probably old enough to be her mother. Since I turned fifty, I rarely look in the mirror. Humor my delusion. I found a spot in the front row and she took the seat next to my right.
“Hi, I'm Jane,” she said loudly. I introduced myself. She said, “I'm a business banker at the downtown branch of [Bank]. What do you do?”
Gah! That dreaded tell me about yourself question gets me every time.
A super-old oldster shuffled in the narrow space between desks to claim the seat to my left. I noticed he wore hearing aids like the ones my mother wears. He parked his cane against the desk and took off his plaid newsboy cap. He turned his entire body to smile at me. The banker reached across me to shake his hand. “Hi, I'm Jane!”
“What?” said the oldster, whose name we learned later was Lenny.
True to my nature as an overachiever, a few days earlier, I had found my way to the group's local Google Drive and downloaded the day's agenda, after reformatting it to fit on one page. I was the only person with a printed agenda. Thus, I was ready for the moment when the five new members were to be granted one minute each to introduce themselves. In my car, while watching the clock, I had tested different approaches, remembering my Toastmaster days. Should I write it out? Tell three things about me? Tell a joke?
When the moment came, though, I did what the two women ahead of me did: I stumbled through a brief biography and warbled about how glad I was to be there. Marty the co-chair was apparently timing our responses. I got a thumbs-up for coming in at fifty-seven seconds. Thanks, Toastmasters. Everyone else introduced themselves and reported how many years they had volunteered with the Oldsters. The years of service ranged from zero (us newbies) to over twenty-five years.
Minutes later, about twenty-five people swarmed two tables of food. One table displayed pizza, the other stacked boxes of Panera sandwiches. My preferred lunch time is about three o'clock, but I can eat anytime, especially when stressed, although in company, I tend toward the ascetic side. I hide my binges. Accordingly, I swarmed with the rest and grabbed a veggie sandwich box, but ate only the potato chips, saving the hideously decorated cookie and mysterious wrapped sandwich for later when I could pig out in private.
Someone fetched a sandwich box for Lenny so he didn't have to get up. On both sides of me, my seat mates ate noisily. My misophonia kicked in big time when the presenter had to compete with crunching potato chips and crackling sandwich wrappers. To remain calm (and to prove my status as a self-proclaimed artist), I doodled stupid caricatures in my journal.
Eventually the two-hour meeting dragged to a close with Veronica's plea for more hands to help on committees. If I stay with this group, I predict within two years, I will be running it. Not because I can do a better job, not because I'm so desperate to be in charge, but because everyone else who qualifies to lead will be either burned out, retired, or dead. Leader by default. Last sucker standing.
I escaped into the breezy afternoon sun, feeling a lot more depleted than when I walked in the door. My people alert had been blaring silently since I got swallowed up by Veronica's iron grip. The first thing I did when I got into my nice warm car, you guessed it, was to open up that cookie. It didn't make me feel better, and I knew later I would regret it, but the combination of butter, sugar, and flour took the edge off so I could drive home with some semblance of serenity.
