When the rain washes you clean, you'll know.
Wednesday evening, I walked out of the office with Jann Wenner.
Jann Wenner is the chairman of my company. He started Rolling Stone. He's a music-journalism icon and a legend in the field of magazine publishing.
The only thing I could think of to say to him was, "I like your suit."
Ugh. I am finding that, in my adult years, I am becoming so socially awkward.
Here's what happened:
I ran into him as we were both heading to the elevator to go home. We said hello, how are you, very well thank you, very cordial. There's a glass security door you have to go through, and he got to it first so he held the door open for me. Very chivalrous. I said thank you. But here's the thing: My bag was hugely overstuffed, I'm not thin, and I just felt like I was taking up a lot of space, so my pass-through was clunky and graceless and I think I almost smushed him against the door. I took dance lessons for thirteen years, I can balance in a yoga tree pose for ages, but I couldn't navigate my way through a door past a Very Important Person without practically falling over.
Then there was the awkward stand-in-the-elevator-bank-and-wait minute. The minute that felt like an hour. This is what went through my head while I was standing in the elevator bank with Jann Wenner:
Do I introduce myself?
Do I tell him how much I love my job?
His suit is blue.
Do I tell him that the latest issue of Rolling Stone is really good? I haven't read it. He'll know I haven't read it. I can't lie to the CEO of my company. During a recession. I like the cover. Do I tell him I like the cover?
That's a really nice suit.
Where is the elevator?
Maybe someone he knows will come by and I won't be standing here like an asshole.
Do I call him Mr. Wenner?
We headed into the elevator. Two other people were in there with us. I headed for the back right corner, and a woman stood in front of me and basically backed up to about an inch away from my face. Jann was in the middle and then moved back to lean against the wall, right next to me. This is what went through my head while I was standing in the elevator directly next to Jann Wenner, practically with a mouth full of some strange woman's hair:
That's a really nice suit. I like his suit.
The doors opened, we exited the elevator and entered the lobby. This is what went through my head while I was walking through the lobby a few feet from Jann Wenner:
Do I say goodbye?
It's raining. I should ask him if he has an umbrella.
Do I give Jann Wenner my umbrella?
I hope he has an umbrella.
It's ass-kissy to give him my umbrella. But I think I should offer my umbrella. He's wearing that nice suit and everything.
Do I tell him to have a nice evening?
I wonder if he takes a cab or has a driver.
That would be funny if we rode the subway together.
I'm walking too fast. Does it look like I'm fleeing him? I'm going to get fired.
It's raining.
I spent the next ten minutes running the whole scene through my head over and over again, picking apart moments that could in any way get me fired. I really love my job. I should have told him that. I said nothing to him apart from "thank you" about 35 times. Once I was on the subway en route to my pity party, I was convinced I'd performed at least 10 business faux pas and required job retraining. Ultimately, I didn't know the answer to the big question: Do you talk to The Boss or not? I couldn't think of anything of value to say, so I said nothing. Saying nothing when you're intimidated is better than saying something stupid, right?
And then yesterday, while I was telling my boss about it, he looked up and pointed. And across the office was Jann with a group of people. In that group of people was a blonde woman, middle-aged, with shoulder-length hair. She suddenly smiled at the office, made a big, grand wave, and yelled to all of us, "Bye!" We all waved back, and as one of my coworkers walked past, I said, "Who is that?"
"Stevie Nicks," he said.
Of course. Of course I waved to Stevie Nicks and had no idea I was waving to Stevie Nicks because I couldn't see far enough to tell it was her. Stevie Nicks, who is so mind-bendingly cool that she acknowledged our entire office with one unexpected "bye!" Freakin' Stevie Nicks.
And of course then I froze, and the only song I could think of that had anything to do with Stevie Nicks was "Hold Me," and she didn't even sing lead on it. Christine McVie did. And "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" is one of my favorite songs, but I totally forgot about that one. If I happened to meet Stevie Nicks, I'd say, "I love 'Hold Me'!" and look like an idiot.
This is why I shouldn't talk to celebrities. And why it was good I didn't say anything to Jann Wenner. Because no matter who I've met (Duran Duran!), who I've interviewed (Susan Sarandon!), who I've been shitty to (Ann Coulter!), who I've worked with (Milton Glaser!), when I'm really intimidated, I freeze. And I never know that I'm really intimidated until I've made a total heel of myself. I forget that I'm a relatively smart, aware, pop-culturally-well-versed individual, and instead I become her.
(For the record, I'm not a total lost cause around The Famous and The Intimidating. One recent exception of The Famous was Christopher Atkins, with whom I openly flirted over the nuances of grammar. Long story. A not-so-recent example of The Intimidating? This is how the conversation went with my former editor-in-chief — a woman with whom I was never, ever confident in conversation, no matter how hard I tried — when I gave notice at my former magazine-of-employment:
Me: So, I'm here because I'm leaving.
Her: Oh, really?
Me: Yes. I'm going to Us.
Her: [shocked I would get another job] Oh?
Me: Yeah, so, this was a great experience! Thanks!
Her: [looking down at a container on her desk] Want a blueberry?
Me: No thanks.)
Anyway, babbling. All of this doesn't apply only to well-known luminaries or persons authorized to authoritate me. I was just invited to a girls' weekend at a friend's country home in May. It sounds like ridiculous fun and I'm looking forward to it, but I'm also nervous as hell. Lately I feel totally off my game conversationally and, even though I feel great when I'm with these women, I don't see them frequently, and I'm hesitant. What will I talk about? Will I say anything stupid? Will they even care about what I'm saying? I shouldn't speak. I just shouldn't speak at all.
Once again, I think all of this is because it's spring. I'm never as needlessly rattled as when nature fucks with me every April. I think it's pretty much consensus, particularly this year, that the transition from an unbelievably long winter into whatever this pseudo-thaw is supposed to be has been uncommonly difficult on the human equilibrium. I've felt off since January, actually, but everybody I talk to has mentioned how this season hath wrought the following for them:
depression
ravenous hunger
complete lack of appetite
total disinterest in and inability to exercise
dry skin
Brillo hair
sudden urges to cry
botched memory
debilitating exhaustion
sleepless anxiety
generalized bloating
Want me to go on?
Is this you too?
Because I think I'm experiencing all of these things at once, if that's even possible. Damn you, environment! Screw you, recession! Why do you make me feel like I'm going through puberty all over again?!? Was it not traumatic enough the first time?!? Gah! Feh! Bleh.
So my confidence has been rocked because I'm putty, and I know it's reflecting in how I move, how I speak, how I write, how I sleep, how I make my decisions, how much I mull over my decisions to the annoyed dismay of many. This drives me insane because I know better. I should know better than to panic since this happens to me every. freakin'. year, though I always forget. I know how I want to feel, and I know how to feel that way. At this point in my life, I know what to do for my mental and physical health and well-being. I know there's no point in me obsessing over all this the way I have been because I'm not that socially awkward, I'm not that crap at conversation, I'm not the train wreck I write myself to be here. I'm just, as My People like to say, fermished. So this is horseshit. I should be able to walk up to Stevie Nicks, tell her I love her haircut, and sing the Tom Petty part of "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" while she sings her part and we become BFF because she'll be really impressed with my excellent Tom Petty impression — something that, if you're lucky and if we get to know each other a little better, I'll do for you.
The good news is, things are looking up, by virtue of blooming crocuses and daffodils, and with the weather — and the goings-on in me noggin — stabilizing. And also this: This post is about an actual topic, rather than about a) how I can't think of what to write, or b) random pictures of people dressed as pandas. La victoire! C'est une pamplemousse!
Here, this is funny, courtesy of Stephanie.
Jann Wenner is the chairman of my company. He started Rolling Stone. He's a music-journalism icon and a legend in the field of magazine publishing.
The only thing I could think of to say to him was, "I like your suit."
Ugh. I am finding that, in my adult years, I am becoming so socially awkward.
Here's what happened:
I ran into him as we were both heading to the elevator to go home. We said hello, how are you, very well thank you, very cordial. There's a glass security door you have to go through, and he got to it first so he held the door open for me. Very chivalrous. I said thank you. But here's the thing: My bag was hugely overstuffed, I'm not thin, and I just felt like I was taking up a lot of space, so my pass-through was clunky and graceless and I think I almost smushed him against the door. I took dance lessons for thirteen years, I can balance in a yoga tree pose for ages, but I couldn't navigate my way through a door past a Very Important Person without practically falling over.
Then there was the awkward stand-in-the-elevator-bank-and-wait minute. The minute that felt like an hour. This is what went through my head while I was standing in the elevator bank with Jann Wenner:
Do I introduce myself?
Do I tell him how much I love my job?
His suit is blue.
Do I tell him that the latest issue of Rolling Stone is really good? I haven't read it. He'll know I haven't read it. I can't lie to the CEO of my company. During a recession. I like the cover. Do I tell him I like the cover?
That's a really nice suit.
Where is the elevator?
Maybe someone he knows will come by and I won't be standing here like an asshole.
Do I call him Mr. Wenner?
We headed into the elevator. Two other people were in there with us. I headed for the back right corner, and a woman stood in front of me and basically backed up to about an inch away from my face. Jann was in the middle and then moved back to lean against the wall, right next to me. This is what went through my head while I was standing in the elevator directly next to Jann Wenner, practically with a mouth full of some strange woman's hair:
That's a really nice suit. I like his suit.
The doors opened, we exited the elevator and entered the lobby. This is what went through my head while I was walking through the lobby a few feet from Jann Wenner:
Do I say goodbye?
It's raining. I should ask him if he has an umbrella.
Do I give Jann Wenner my umbrella?
I hope he has an umbrella.
It's ass-kissy to give him my umbrella. But I think I should offer my umbrella. He's wearing that nice suit and everything.
Do I tell him to have a nice evening?
I wonder if he takes a cab or has a driver.
That would be funny if we rode the subway together.
I'm walking too fast. Does it look like I'm fleeing him? I'm going to get fired.
It's raining.
I spent the next ten minutes running the whole scene through my head over and over again, picking apart moments that could in any way get me fired. I really love my job. I should have told him that. I said nothing to him apart from "thank you" about 35 times. Once I was on the subway en route to my pity party, I was convinced I'd performed at least 10 business faux pas and required job retraining. Ultimately, I didn't know the answer to the big question: Do you talk to The Boss or not? I couldn't think of anything of value to say, so I said nothing. Saying nothing when you're intimidated is better than saying something stupid, right?
And then yesterday, while I was telling my boss about it, he looked up and pointed. And across the office was Jann with a group of people. In that group of people was a blonde woman, middle-aged, with shoulder-length hair. She suddenly smiled at the office, made a big, grand wave, and yelled to all of us, "Bye!" We all waved back, and as one of my coworkers walked past, I said, "Who is that?"
"Stevie Nicks," he said.
Of course. Of course I waved to Stevie Nicks and had no idea I was waving to Stevie Nicks because I couldn't see far enough to tell it was her. Stevie Nicks, who is so mind-bendingly cool that she acknowledged our entire office with one unexpected "bye!" Freakin' Stevie Nicks.
And of course then I froze, and the only song I could think of that had anything to do with Stevie Nicks was "Hold Me," and she didn't even sing lead on it. Christine McVie did. And "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" is one of my favorite songs, but I totally forgot about that one. If I happened to meet Stevie Nicks, I'd say, "I love 'Hold Me'!" and look like an idiot.
This is why I shouldn't talk to celebrities. And why it was good I didn't say anything to Jann Wenner. Because no matter who I've met (Duran Duran!), who I've interviewed (Susan Sarandon!), who I've been shitty to (Ann Coulter!), who I've worked with (Milton Glaser!), when I'm really intimidated, I freeze. And I never know that I'm really intimidated until I've made a total heel of myself. I forget that I'm a relatively smart, aware, pop-culturally-well-versed individual, and instead I become her.
(For the record, I'm not a total lost cause around The Famous and The Intimidating. One recent exception of The Famous was Christopher Atkins, with whom I openly flirted over the nuances of grammar. Long story. A not-so-recent example of The Intimidating? This is how the conversation went with my former editor-in-chief — a woman with whom I was never, ever confident in conversation, no matter how hard I tried — when I gave notice at my former magazine-of-employment:
Me: So, I'm here because I'm leaving.
Her: Oh, really?
Me: Yes. I'm going to Us.
Her: [shocked I would get another job] Oh?
Me: Yeah, so, this was a great experience! Thanks!
Her: [looking down at a container on her desk] Want a blueberry?
Me: No thanks.)
Anyway, babbling. All of this doesn't apply only to well-known luminaries or persons authorized to authoritate me. I was just invited to a girls' weekend at a friend's country home in May. It sounds like ridiculous fun and I'm looking forward to it, but I'm also nervous as hell. Lately I feel totally off my game conversationally and, even though I feel great when I'm with these women, I don't see them frequently, and I'm hesitant. What will I talk about? Will I say anything stupid? Will they even care about what I'm saying? I shouldn't speak. I just shouldn't speak at all.
Once again, I think all of this is because it's spring. I'm never as needlessly rattled as when nature fucks with me every April. I think it's pretty much consensus, particularly this year, that the transition from an unbelievably long winter into whatever this pseudo-thaw is supposed to be has been uncommonly difficult on the human equilibrium. I've felt off since January, actually, but everybody I talk to has mentioned how this season hath wrought the following for them:
depression
ravenous hunger
complete lack of appetite
total disinterest in and inability to exercise
dry skin
Brillo hair
sudden urges to cry
botched memory
debilitating exhaustion
sleepless anxiety
generalized bloating
Want me to go on?
Is this you too?
Because I think I'm experiencing all of these things at once, if that's even possible. Damn you, environment! Screw you, recession! Why do you make me feel like I'm going through puberty all over again?!? Was it not traumatic enough the first time?!? Gah! Feh! Bleh.
So my confidence has been rocked because I'm putty, and I know it's reflecting in how I move, how I speak, how I write, how I sleep, how I make my decisions, how much I mull over my decisions to the annoyed dismay of many. This drives me insane because I know better. I should know better than to panic since this happens to me every. freakin'. year, though I always forget. I know how I want to feel, and I know how to feel that way. At this point in my life, I know what to do for my mental and physical health and well-being. I know there's no point in me obsessing over all this the way I have been because I'm not that socially awkward, I'm not that crap at conversation, I'm not the train wreck I write myself to be here. I'm just, as My People like to say, fermished. So this is horseshit. I should be able to walk up to Stevie Nicks, tell her I love her haircut, and sing the Tom Petty part of "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" while she sings her part and we become BFF because she'll be really impressed with my excellent Tom Petty impression — something that, if you're lucky and if we get to know each other a little better, I'll do for you.
The good news is, things are looking up, by virtue of blooming crocuses and daffodils, and with the weather — and the goings-on in me noggin — stabilizing. And also this: This post is about an actual topic, rather than about a) how I can't think of what to write, or b) random pictures of people dressed as pandas. La victoire! C'est une pamplemousse!
Here, this is funny, courtesy of Stephanie.
Labels: health, philosophical whatnots, pop culture, weather, work
posted by Marla at 9:05 PM
3 Comments:
Please share the story of you not being nice to Ann Coulter.
It's not just you, though my social paranoia isn't seasonal. In fact, I'm pretty sure I did a mental play-by-play of our pizza dinner with Eleanor in NYC, wondering if I was rude or a doofus.
Riggle, you were so awesome at pizza dinner. And you still have your Riggle Room in my house for whenever you make it back for another fun pizza dinner.
Amy, here's what I remember of my interaction with Ann Coulter, who, not surprisingly, looks as terrifyingly skeletal in person as you expect she would:
I was at my first company Christmas party, and she was a guest. To my intense delight, so was Tim Robbins, whom I often refer to as My Husband Tim Robbins. The one opportunity I had to say hello to him was when he was in the thick of a conversation with her (I believe when I read about it on Gawker.com the next day, they referred to it as a Yalta conference), but I wasn't about to pass up my chance to introduce myself to him and give him the speech I've been practicing in the mirror for years in the event I ever met Tim Robbins.
So I went over there and tapped his arm, as he is about 100 feet tall and never would have seen me otherwise, and I introduced myself and told him my spiel about how I love his work and how I'd never had a favorite movie until saw "Shawshank." I have to say, I handled myself pretty well given the scale of my love for him. I totally ignored Coulter; I figured it was better to ignore her and be passively rude than to be outwardly rude. While I was speaking with him, she looked at me all interested and said, "Where do you work?" I said, "Us," and turned back to him and kept kvelling over him. He humored me and was kind, but I did interrupt what was probably a really interesting conversation between him, a known liberal, and ... Ann Coulter. So while I'm sitting there being Crazy Fan, Coulter then looks at me and says, "Did you know he's a liberal?" I said, "So am I." Tim Robbins looks at her and deadpans, "Ann, you're in New York."
I told him it was a pleasure to meet him, apologized for interrupting, and as I was leaving, she said goodbye. I was all, "kaybye." I just figured that, given how much I absolutely detest the woman, it was better to pretty much not engage at all than to say what I really wanted to say, thereby totally disrespecting whoever invited her AND disrespecting any kind of discourse she had going with My Husband Tim Robbins — two things I was not about to do.
So it's not like I gave her the smackdown she deserves or anything, and it's not like I was a blip in her evening, but it was fun to turn my back on her and blow her off a bit. I was terrified to look her directly in the eyes anyway, lest my skin melt off.
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