For a universe that owes me nothing - it certainly expects a lot.
I’m just a person with a pulse
and some borrowed confidence.
Does that surprise you?
I don’t like being the center of attention.
I think my Grandmère’s trying to grind that out of me
by putting me in klieg-lit situations.
Twice, in the last 6 months, she’s planned teeming receptions
only to show up late - leaving me to do the line. I’ve ‘discussed’ it with her,
“You’re not funny,” I dead-panned her, “STOP it - seriously.”
Both times it happened, Peter (my bf) pumped me up to get me started, “Humiliation’s temporary,” he pronounced,
and the next time, "You're tougher than I think.”
“You’re the BEST,” was all I could reply, before I stepped into each small disaster.
We’ve all been to parties, I assume.
My Grandmère’s tend to be formal - which means stuffy -
with important people who want to be with important people.
The host greets everyone and makes them feel welcome.
François, one of my Grandmère’s corporate minions had the task
of standing discreetly in back of me to feed me names and facts -
just like in a movie.
When mingling, I practice conversational Jujutsu - I deliberately
shift the conversational weight to the person opposite me.
I’ve come to see hosting as choreography.
I’m the Roomba of greeters.
If Med-school has taught me anything, it’s that:
People can sense panic the way dogs smell bacon.
The trick is to keep smiling - until it feels like personality.
.
.
A song for this:
Royals (feat. Puddles Pity Party) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox
Smile away by Paul McCartney