Besotted

Sauntering down the hallway in a simple black cocktail dress, I plant myself in front of the TV he’s watching and ask what he thinks.  All this primping, packing and parading of fashion is an undertaking in itself, often requiring a complete inventory of the closet to suss the proper clothing:   Those pieces appearing professional yet casual, stylish yet comfortable, somehow insulating me inside air conditioned spaces while at the same time suitable in the sunshine and warmth outside; the ones that (wishfully) shave a few pounds and a few years off this vessel carrying me around.   It’s a tall order and my closet usually fails me, meaning if time allows I’ll make a half-hearted attempt to acquire some resort wear guaranteed to gather dust in my closet after the trip.  I’m curating my wardrobe for a 3-day business conference in Florida, and I’m exhausted.  

These events are a huge financial investment for my employer, a concentrated time commitment, an overload of opportunities for connection and teeming with more relevant and insightful information than any one human can possibly consume.  We’re in front of everybody who’s anybody in the organization.  Of course, we want to have practiced our elevator pitches and brand statements and be armed with a set of intriguing questions to ask the many new faces we’ll meet.  We need to be personable and witty, engaged but not overly serious, humble while channeling a little hubris, as this is the time to put our greatness on display. The pressure to look your best and be your best from the 6AM 5K run to the wee hours of the morning wherever cocktails are served is palpable. 

I have a love-hate relationship with these events.  I’ve slogged out of many conferences on the last day, feeling like the most plain, average, uninspiring woman on the planet, comparing myself to the beautiful people who have somehow struck exactly the right chord, looking totally comfortable in their chic elegance, while my resort wear hides in my suitcase because I can’t bring myself to don such foreign attire.  Everyone else seems to be in all the right conversations and at complete ease, lost in riveting dialogue with people they barely know.  All this culminates in award winners hailed in tear-jerking videos for not only their flawless work but selfless volunteering and unwavering devotion to their families. 

Oh, the stories I tell myself about not seeking out enough connections, not enticing enough meaningful conversations, not asking enough questions, not staying up late enough to network, or staying up too late and choosing sleep over breakfast in a ballroom with a slew of colleagues.  Everywhere I look there is an opportunity to tell myself I am less than. 

What my experience at these events tells me is if I want to thrive I need to call upon the powerful sense of self-love I’ve been religiously cultivating for the last several years. Working in such an amazing culture of incredibly smart, organized, prepared, thoughtful and caring leaders means there will always be room to doubt myself.  Even though I’ve been strengthening  my self-love muscle for years, it inevitably buckles under the sheer weight of the convergence of so much excellence under a single roof.   So, the question becomes how do I rekindle the romance, remind myself about all there is I love about me so I can ward off the ferocious feelings of inadequacy that threaten to take me down? 

This time I dug deep into my reserves and brought to the forefront me at my very best.  I not only wrote my own story, I told my story, and the dividends I reaped are priceless.  I helped a struggling colleague find her energy reserve to keep going in a tough job.  I used my superpowers of inquisition to facilitate a lively and thoughtful conversation I was asked to moderate.  I listened to an old friend tell the tale of his recent divorce.  I met the families of our award winners and shared my own views about what makes their loved one so special to me.  I spoke out about some behaviors I have observed that run counter to our culture.  I encouraged another to make the very courageous choice to speak up about a colleague in trouble, opening the door to some much-needed help.   I found a deeper clarity of my purpose in this organization and shared it out loud.  Instead of wishing I was more like the others in the room, I owned what makes me different, and in being brave enough to tell my story I was rewarded with respect, even reverence.  

Sitting in my middle seat on the airplane flying home I’m determined to finish this piece and post before this Valentine’s Day comes to a close. There isn’t a better day of the year to reinforce the power of self-love, to recount our own love stories in hopes of inspiring others to give themselves this very special gift.  

I was not the most glamorous, the smartest, the most vocal or most connected person at the conference.  Not only did I skip breakfast one day, I didn’t even sign up for the 5K.  At the end of the day it wasn’t about quantity, it was about quality.  I took risks. I spoke my mind. I wore the black cocktail dress he gave the thumbs up to.  And I didn’t even bother to pack resort wear.  

Positraction

Technically, I’m the mentor, but what I love about these relationships is the moment my group of mentees enquires about what’s happening in my world I don’t hesitate to the turn the tables and ask for their take on a troubling situation that’s hurled me and my car into a ditch. They represent everything a good mentor should:  They’re removed from the organization I’m involved in. My future success doesn’t depend on them in any way, shape, or form.  I can be my most authentic, letting my hair down in its most disheveled, tangled mess with no threat of running into any characters outside this trusted circle in this unpolished, unapologetic state.

 

Each one of the three contributes a sliver of solid perspective, a glimmering nugget which I turn over and over in thoughtful consideration while deciding how I ultimately want to show up. A veritable roadside assistance crew, they are instrumental in helping me put my vehicle back onto the pavement. 

They suggest I keep an open mind, presume the uninvited protagonist entering the pages of my story comes confident in my abilities and ready to advocate. What could happen if I assume her intentions are good?  If I give her the benefit of the doubt, entertain the possibility she might just be a jughead, ignorant or naïve about how she is landing on me.

   

They ask me to consider what a personal win looks like to my new foil. How do I make myself as valuable to her as anyone can in these circumstances?  Could focusing on what makes her tick help me feel more comfortable about my own standing?

Reflecting on their sage advice, it dawns on me I’ve been very myopic, intent on my own insecurities. My old, demonic nemesis, Perfectionism, rearing her ugly head yet again, demanding I shore up every aspect of my responsibilities, admonishing me for any inadequacies, marginalizing the places I shine by intimating they neither matter nor are valued, suggesting my biggest weakness is the only chapter of the story anyone is reading.  Ultimately bolstering the perpetual fear I’m one day away from being put out to pasture.

 

With this clarity I’m able to put into action my mentees’ most powerful message. They reinforce the concept of focusing on my strengths, of doing more of what I do best:  Asking questions to induce her to reflect on how she is showing up, to suss an alternative point of view, to open the lines of communication. “You are the master of these questions,” they tell me.  How do I use this skill to tamp down my own rising resentments and pave a positive experience on the road I’m now traveling as Tonto instead of The Lone Ranger?

The professionals sharing research on people development tell us the data suggests we get far more bang for our buck by ameliorating our strengths instead of trying to improve our weaknesses.  So, it shouldn’t surprise me that when I’m stuck, sending more power to the place where I have the most traction will ultimately catapult me out of the mud.

 

It’s the shining moment in the movie “My Cousin Vinny” when Marissa Tomei, as the glam Italian girlfriend, is on the witness stand using her experience growing up in a family full of mechanics to define the word for Joe Pesci’s bumbling amateur defense attorney, and with it, winning the case for the yutes.

 

And so I’m determined to make it my shining moment, too.  I focus on returning to my bedrock, the dependable and infinite well of my strengths, pressing the accelerator to the floor without letting up.  It may feel like overkill in this moment, but what I know for sure is this extra power is everything my tender, bruised ego needs to burnish in my next chapter, back on solid ground.