Sorry I'm Late, I Didn't Want to Come Page 12

  By nature, introverted and shy people tend to have smaller social circles. Which brings us to “networking” and my clear need to try to be better at it. I’d talked to strangers. But what about entering an entire room full of them? Would these ties lead me to a bigger, fuller life?

  Networking is all about meeting people and establishing relationships with new individuals with whom we can exchange new ideas or career opportunities. Well, that’s the official definition. In reality, it feels more like The Hunger Games inside a crowded conference room: tepid prosecco, name tags, and awkward conversation with total strangers, but all animated by the sneaking undercurrent of “How can I use you to my advantage?”

  Personally, I would rather volunteer as a tribute in a real-life Hunger Games. Instead of trading business cards, you could trade poisonous berries. Instead of small talk, you get to set killer wasps on your enemies. Both of which are far more exciting than a freelancer’s happy hour soiree.

  But I often sign up for networking events because I want to believe this is going to be the evening that will change my life. This is the night I’ll meet someone who will look into my eyes; see all of my wild, undernourished potential; take me under their wing; mentor me; and tell me I’m the new head of Netflix.

  I also assure myself that by the time the event rolls around, I’ll be someone else. Someone confident, social, and gregarious. Able to pull off fishnet tights. Taller.

  But then, when the day arrives, I’m a no-show. Skipping events is one of my top five hobbies, ranking just below watching videos of dogs jumping into piles of leaves.

  Odds are, no matter who you are, you’re just as abysmal as I am when it comes to sticking to plans. A poll of two thousand Americans found that 46 percent of millennials don’t see a problem with flaking, and more than half of us don’t see a problem with accepting an invitation we have no intention of following through on. (Only half? I’m impressed.)

  But no more. After the rocky terrain of my friend-dating challenge where so many people canceled (so much softball, so much food poisoning, so many migraines), I vowed to start showing up more. Last winter, my friend canceled long-standing dinner plans because she was “afraid of getting a cold.” She didn’t even have the cold yet. Couldn’t she have summoned the will to at least fabricate a real cold? How hard is it to send a simple sneeze emoji? The lack of effort was far more offensive than her last-minute canceling.

  I’m out of town, I have to work late, my brother’s in town, my softball team made it to the Olympics, I’m feeling plague-y, there’s a transit strike, The Great British Baking Show is on and it’s Cake Week, my foot hurts, Mercury is in retrograde, my friend got tickets to see Beyoncé tonight and no she didn’t invite me to go with her but it’s making me very jealous. All code for: I just want to sit on my trusty couch eating takeout, and I’m fine never meeting another person again and staying in my crappy job forever as long as right now, at this moment, I don’t have to wear black pantyhose and heels and get on a train and sit upright while stringing together cohesive sentences.

  I’ve used all of these excuses and then some.

  But I need to be the change I want to see in the world. This is clearly what Gandhi was talking about. I was going to network.

  The problem is that the 10 percent of times that I do actually attend the networking events I’ve signed up for, the same thing always happens: I reach the door, hear the din of conversation, and stand there, coat in hand, stomach in throat. Then the door opens and reveals a full room with small groups of people already chatting in tight-knit circles, and I freeze. I don’t know how to walk into the room and join a group. And if someone talks to me, inexplicably I either start rambling and oversharing or become totally mute. Within fifteen minutes, I extricate myself, feeling hot and flustered, and head back home. Maybe now I could talk to strangers one-on-one on the street with no stakes, but in a high-pressure social atmosphere, consequences are bigger. One awkward misunderstanding or faux pas at an industry party could ruin your life forever after you get the reputation as “that strange woman who hovers.”

  Most of my fear comes from feeling socially awkward, especially at an event where you are supposed to impress. Is there a way to learn to be more adept in these situations? After some exposing Google searches—“how to be interesting,” “how to not be a loser in public”—and promptly clearing my search history in shame, I find what I didn’t even know I was looking for: a charisma coach. Someone who holds the secret to effortless conversation and charm in professional settings. And is willing to share it with you for a fee. Who is this keeper of magical secrets?

  The charisma coach is Richard Reid, a psychotherapist who coaches business leaders. He cites research that claims that magnetism is 50 percent innate and 50 percent learned. In fact, according to Richard, charisma is a set of behaviors that anyone can integrate into their personality.

  We’ll see about that.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  I sit on the green therapy couch. Richard sits across from me, legs crossed. He’s telling me why maintaining eye contact when shaking hands with someone new is one of the first ways to make a positive impression. I’m reeling from this because we just shook hands thirty seconds ago and I can’t remember whether I did this.

  He assures me that I did. I settle back into the sofa, simultaneously pleased and prickled by a doubt about whether he’s lying to seem charismatic to me. Because it’s working.

  Richard maintains eye contact, his voice is steady, he smiles, he gesticulates, he has open body language. Charisma: 10/10. Would charisma again.

  Richard tells me that so many of the things that come up in his charisma course overlap with his therapy practice: confidence, self-esteem, performance, body language, impostor syndrome. His course is popular with men—who are more likely to associate therapy with a stigma, and therefore would not go, but who are open to learning how to become more charming or successful at work.

  I tell Richard that when I meet new people in a group setting, I become anxious. I’m fine one on one. But in groups of people, I panic. They seem to rotate around me but never touch me, like I am the sun, but instead of the sun, I am a social pariah. Richard nods, understandingly; a small, encouraging smile and just the slightest furrow of his brow tell me that he empathizes, that it’s tough, but there is a way through. God, he’s good.

  “The part of the brain that gauges situations is very, very primitive,” he says. “It’s what we call the reptilian brain. The human brain is predisposed to thinking about safety—we don’t necessarily think about social situations as being explicitly dangerous, but the brain can perceive them in the same way that it would a physical threat.”

  It comes back to me in a flash: the time I walked into a room full of hundreds of attractive women in heels and neat men in business suits for a generic meet-up I’d found online. I’d accidentally slammed the door very loudly on the way in, and they all swiveled to stare at me in unison. At first I was confused: there was so much cologne in the air and so many well-groomed women in high heels that I felt like I had erroneously stumbled into a dating event. As I felt the endless pairs of eyes lingering on me, I felt a flush creep up my neck. I backed out slowly, like a hiker trying to placate a bear, and shut the door quietly behind me.

  I push the thought out of my head.

  “So it’s just too many stimuli to take in at once?” I ask.

  “Absolutely.”

  Typically, introverts weigh decisions more carefully than extroverts. We’re better at one-on-one situations because it’s easier to judge how people are disposed toward us and what they might do next if there is only one person to process. Richard says that when we start interacting with ten people or more, it becomes nerve-wracking because there are too many things to monitor.

  I tell Richard that when I enter a room full of strangers, it feels impossible to make contact with people who are alre
ady in conversation.

  I see Richard note my alert eyes and my position perched on the edge of the sofa.

  “Go slow,” he says. “Don’t just throw your hand into a group and say ‘Hi! I’m Jess’ before they’ve even seen you. You don’t want to alarm their reptilian brains.” I once saw a nature documentary where a cornered lizard squirted blood out of its eyes. Nope. I don’t want that. Hard pass.

  He tells me to make eye contact with people, smile, and join on the end of the group. Nod at appropriate times. Then wait for a gap to join in and introduce myself. This feels like a manual for Human Behavior 101, but I clearly need it.

  My go-to move at these events is to grab a drink and then sit in the farthest, dimmest corner I can find, darkly admiring the fancy-free revelers from afar, before transforming back into a bat and disappearing into the night. I try to describe this to Richard in a way that sounds sane.

  “You’re rehearsing being excluded from conversations without realizing it,” Richard says. He tells me I’m sticking to the periphery as a safety precaution, once again guided by my reptilian brain, which always wants an easy escape.

  This makes sense. When I’m anxious, my mind goes blank as a slate and I actually become more reptilian: shifty and unable to control my own body temperature. It’s the same feeling I get when I’m in the spotlight in front of a crowd.

  Richard tells me to reimagine the scenario as if I’m the host at the party and everybody there is my guest. He says this is a good way to shift my attention away from feeling self-conscious: offer people a drink, ask how they got there, ask whether they know anyone else. Introduce them to other people. Make them take off their shoes and play bridge?

  I nod. I don’t say, “I’ve never thrown a party in my life, Richard.” I like the idea of flouncing around like I own the place.

  When I think about the concept of “charisma” and those who seek it, I think of men spouting tawdry one-liners in an effort to be charming. Wannabe alpha males, who laugh loudly and slap their thighs. Intense eye contact. Chest hair. Hair gel. Cheesy grins. Knowing winks. Tobacco pipes. Gold chains. Maybe I’m thinking of pirates.

  Richard agrees that rehearsed behavior is cringe-y and that charisma is all about the energy we bring to a situation. It’s about assessing the room, asking the right questions, and having the right responses. Matching the energy of the person we’re talking to.

  I look down at my legs on the green couch. I look at Richard. Screw it—this is the closest I’m ever going to get to free therapy.

  “So . . . what would you say my energy is?” I ask.

  Richard considers.

  “The biggest thing you bring is warmth. And that’s hard to manufacture. You come across as a very warm person. That’s your biggest strength,” he says. Before I can react, he goes on:

  “Your confidence is what you need to work on,” he says. “You apologize too much.”

  All right, Richard, it was just a question.

  “You’re hesitant with questions. You speak quickly.”

  I said, all right!

  I clear my throat and ask him how one can learn to be charismatic.

  According to Richard, radiating charisma is actually easy and can be done in a couple of simple steps: ask an open-ended question (not something that can be answered with a yes or a no), listen to someone’s answer, and then show how much you care about their response by asking them a meaningful follow-up question: How did they feel about that? What was that like? What appealed to them about that?

  And then, crucially, you validate their feelings:

  “I work as a dog walker and hang out with dogs all day.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “It’s amazing, and I love it. Dogs are the best.”

  “Yes, they are. That does seem amazing. I would love it, too! You are brilliant.”

  That’s it? That’s all charisma is?

  I think about the most charismatic man I know. He looks like Jude Law, he’s a film producer, and he . . . he does this to a tee. This is his signature move! You walk away from every encounter with him thinking, “God, Ollie is such a good, kind, caring guy. And so handsome!” But all he really does is say, “And how did you feel about that?” at exactly the right moment, echo your feelings back at you, pay you a compliment, and end with a beguiling smile. That handsome little shit. That clever, sneaky, beautiful snake-man.

  Just as I’m feeling slightly deceived by Ollie, Richard steps in again.

  “Authenticity is also important,” he reminds me. “You have to be genuinely interested in someone and in connecting with them or they’ll sense insincerity.”

  It’s basic but necessary guidance. Most interactions at these events are Surface Self talk: what do you do, what are you working on—it rarely deviates into Deep Self talk: OK, but how often do you cry at the office? Do you get bullied at work? Do you ever think that maybe it’s dog walkers who have everything figured out in life?

  Richard tells me that most people are stuck in their work routines and they don’t take the time to reflect on how they feel about things, or they think they don’t have permission to talk about these things with other people. At networking events, people tend to be guarded or overeager to please, but if you let them vent their feelings and show them some empathy and compassion, you can create a real connection. But you gotta move fast, because these encounters tend to be brief. It’s essentially applying what I learned about talking to strangers, but to the max, revved up at top speed.

  As I gather my things to go, I ask Richard whether he’s an introvert or an extrovert.

  “I’m a massive introvert,” he says.

  “What? No, you’re not,” I say.

  Richard looks startled.

  “But you lead big conferences! You’re active in the media, and you have to be with people all day,” I add.

  “I’ve learned to play up the extrovert side: it’s a fact that extroverts have massive advantages, so I’m self-taught,” he says.

  Ah, my master.

  “Could you go to Glastonbury solo and make friends?” I ask Richard, as I put on my coat to go. I like to ask others how they would handle our ninth circle of hell.

  “I could, yeah.”

  “But would you want to go?” I ask him. Just to make sure we were on the same page.

  “I can’t think of anywhere I’d less want to be,” he says.

  “Me, too!” I say. “Were you always this way?”

  “Even when I was younger, I never, ever wanted to go.”

  “I feel the same way. It gives me great pleasure not to be there,” I say vehemently.

  He beams for the first time in the entire session.

  “Me, too,” he says.

  In the elevator on my way out, I think back over our final exchange and realize that I’d asked Richard a genuine question, had him admit his true feelings, and then validated them with my own.

  Now who is the master?

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Not me. I held the elusive secret to charisma in the clammy palm of my hand, but, as Richard had pointed out, I am lacking in confidence. In an effort to get geared up for more events, I start saying yes to more things. My friend Sarah (we were set up by a mutual friend who had moved away but who knew I was looking for more friends) invites me to a book launch.

  Shortly after I arrive, Sarah introduces me to her friend: Daisy Buchanan. She’s the advice columnist for the British magazine Grazia and has written a book called How to Be a Grown-Up. In her book, she talks about all the socializing she has done for her job. Plus, she’s used to women coming up to her crying and asking for help. If anyone can help me get over myself and storm the London networking scene, it’s her.

  I want to know what she thinks would help someone gain confidence or be better at networking.

  Daisy is g
ame. She doles out advice for a living, and it shows: she’s perceptive, thoughtful, and nuanced. When I ask her about whether networking is really worth the pain for a shy introvert, she tells me, “You absolutely never know when people are going to turn up in your life again. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You might gain friends and opportunity and an enjoyable evening.”

  When it comes to the constant canceling and de rigueur flakiness, Daisy explains that she has had panic attacks and canceled on events because of anxiety in the past. “Now I know the difference in myself when I’m anxious and it’s making me ill,” she says, explaining that this is a perfectly valid reason to cancel. “But if I’m just feeling a bit run-down and want to hide behind ‘self-care,’ then I know I should probably show up for my commitments.”

  OK but what about if I really, really just want to stay home on my sofa?

  “Sometimes the best thing for our mental health is Netflix and takeout, and sometimes, actually, it’s so much healthier to leave the house, go outside, see people, and experience something new.” The advice columnist has spoken.

  Then she says conspiratorially, “And any shy, introverted person should always go to a party with an exit strategy.”

  I nod and take her final lesson to heart, feeling merrily justified as I excuse myself from the party because the health food store next door is closing soon and I need rice milk.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  I tried a lot of networking events this year, and at each one I had the same three types of encounters. So will you.

  You will meet one person who is very nice but with whom you have absolutely nothing in common. You exchange numbers you have no intention of using, and then they will say something like, “I think we’re supposed to circulate,” and walk away. You’ll think, “OK, that’s literally a line in Bridget Jones,” and you’ll be simultaneously relieved and slightly wounded by this cut from someone you don’t know or particularly like. You will never, ever see or think of them ever again.