For the past decade my personal mantra has been
Do what interests you. Following the elusive muse hasn't always been easy. Identifying my interests can be challenging, especially when they conflict, for example, making art and paying the rent. Not mutually exclusive, I grant you, except in my case, where the art tends to be particularly unmarketable. Anyway, using
Do what interests you is a holdover from my former life as an artist, and I've adapted it for my current life in higher education, business, and research. It still works as a mantra, but now I have another one, one that ups the stakes considerably. My new mantra is
Do what frightens you.
As a demonstration of my commitment to doing what frightens me, last night I once again dove into the deep, dark, and murky cesspool I know as networking. There was an event at a restaurant in Northwest Portland, not an easy place to find parking, so I went all in and took the bus. The sun was setting as I got off at 11th and Alder. The air was cold and pre-foggy. I wore old Levis 501s that fit me like a glove, a too-tight, very uncomfortable, can't-sit-down-without-urping kind of glove. The chronic malcontent (me) got fat over the past few years. Too much sit down typing, not enough treadmill typing, what can I say. The unhappy byproduct of writing a dissertation is a muffin-top. That's why I wear pajamas all the time, but that's another story. I was cold in my too-tight jeans, but I gamely hiked the blocks from Alder to Glisan, figuring that the walking could only help, if I could keep from upchucking in the bushes along the way.
I got to the restaurant. Outside the big plank doors stood a man hawking copies of Street Roots, the newspaper the sales of which help get guys off the street. I knew I had a dollar in my dayplanner. Perfect. Except I couldn't find my dayplanner. I had switched bags in my quest to be cool, and I'd forgotten to put the leather folder into my knapsack. I rummaged around for five minutes while the guy hawked his newspaper to people who walked by him as if he weren't there. Finally, I apologized. He looked at me in disgust, and I went into the restaurant, feeling like a total loser.
“Are you here for the networking event?” The perky young woman at the desk eyed me up and down. I said yes, and she pointed to the rear of the room. I crossed between tables, barely taking in the bizarre Polynesian decor, and found a crowd of people packed into the Kontiki Room, listening to the speaker, a local marketing guru, talk about networking. Men and women in business attire sat at tables, stood along the walls, and even sat on the floor. I could see the audience quite well through floor-to-ceiling windows, but not the slides or the speaker himself, as I was at the back of the latecomer pack milling around in the Kontiki Room foyer, far from the action. Too many heads blocked my view.
I saw a long-haired gal with a clipboard standing in a clear area in the foyer outside the Kontiki Room. I asked her, “What time did it start?”
“The presentation started at 4:30. Networking is at 5:30.”
I kicked myself mentally. Apparently I had missed the whole presentation. I'd written 4:30 in my dayplanner, but when I checked online before I left the apartment, I'd seen only the time for networking and thus delayed going out to the bus. I could have been one of those people sitting in the Kontiki Room, taking notes like the good student I am, soaking up networking tips and pretending to myself that I was using my time wisely, making connections, letting myself become known.
Some other latecomers showed up. One girl stood alone. She looked approachable, so I approached.
“Did you come for the networking?” I asked, to break the ice. She smiled.
“I work with him,” she said, nodding toward the speaker, who looked very far away across the Kontiki Room. “I've seen the presentation before.”
Jackpot! Maybe better than meeting the man himself was meeting one of his minions.
I asked her if she had studied marketing in college. “Public relations,” she replied.
“Same thing, persuading people,” I said nonchalantly.
“You never know who you might meet,” she said, implying she might be looking for another job.
“It's a small community,” I hazarded.
Her eyes got big, and she nodded vigorously. “So true!” I felt a pang of envy that she was a part of that small community, and I was on the outside looking in. I moved away, and then jumped back before the crowd could absorb her. “Do you have a card on you?” She pulled out a business card. I handed her one of my own. She melted into the group as I sought a clear spot, away from the group.
Apparently there are other folks who gravitate toward the periphery. I made two more connections, one a guy who has a company that helps salespeople track and manage their leads. We talked about webinars. He asked me what platform I used to deliver my webinars. I had to confess I didn't have anything up and running yet. Another lost opportunity to promote my nebulous research business. We exchanged business cards.
The third connection was with a young man in a plaid suit who had been sitting near the back of the Kontiki Room during the presentation. He was standing in the open near me, so I smiled and asked what he had learned. He proceeded to tell me some tips he had gleaned from the seminar. He was just finishing an MBA at PSU, so we talked about PSU and completing degrees. He seemed interested in my dissertation topic, so I fumbled my way through an explanation, thinking to myself, I really need to write that 30-second elevator speech.
Once that interaction was over, I was exhausted. I was also hungry, thirsty, and my pants were still too tight. The only consolation is that I never had to sit down, or I am sure I would have barfed all over the Kontiki Room. Maybe there is a god. I cast one more look at the crowd, and then I headed across the restaurant toward the door. Outside the air was cold and refreshing. The homeless guy was gone. I put my hands in my pockets and started hiking the 11 blocks to Salmon to catch my bus.
I was nodding off at the back of the bus when a grizzled dark-skinned guy in the seat ahead of me turned around. “Are we heading toward downtown?” he asked me, brow crinkled.
I smiled. “No, downtown is back that way. You need to get off the bus, cross the street, and catch it going the other way.” He leaped up and headed toward the back door. As he exited he said, “You are going to be my wife, right?”
I didn't have time to respond before he was gone, but I said, “Right,” and laughed to myself as the bus continued plodding from stop to stop back up the hill toward home.
