I once read a study (OK, as I recall, a slow sports night) that found No. 2 on the list of peoples' greatest fears was death.
No. 1 was having to give a speech or presentation in front of a group of people. So, a logical extension suggests, basically, most of us would rather die than speak in public.
My top fear was heights, followed by snakes. You're free to interpret that any way you want. But for the purposes of our current discussion, the big take-away is talking in front of people doesn't bother me much.
I don't have to imagine everyone in the audience in underwear or on the toilet or whatever other trick is recommended to nervous speech givers. I just picture a bunch of people who want to hear what I have to say, and that I'm entertaining enough to keep them interested for a few minutes. That could easily be as much a fantasy as the "underwear/toilet" deal, but it gets me through. And it keeps me from having to deal with some pretty unpleasant mental images. After all, there are some things you can't un-see, even if they were only in your head.
All of which doesn't really explain why I was breaking into a cold sweat sitting across from my youngest daughter at a local restaurant. Because while I was dealing with an audience of exactly one, it was Advice Time. And the arrow was pointing at me.
The youngest Dumpling Darling Buttercup (or, something like that) is about to start a summer internship. We hope this will either morph into full-time, actual, gainful employment, or at least provide her with the skills and whet her appetite to pursue and acquire such.
I've pursued and acquired gainful employment more times than I'd like to mention (yep, I know. When one door closes, another one opens. However, that still means you got a door closed on you. Just saying ...). That makes me the career expert. At least at this particular table at this particular moment. OK, a pretty small subset, but it's what we've got.
Let's face it: I'm a manager and a journalist. I'm used to telling people what to do, secure in the knowledge they'll at least be polite enough to act interested. And if free advice is worth what you pay for it, advice you get for all of a dollar probably can't be expected to hurdle a much higher bar.
But, this is one of my kids. So, while I'm more than happy (OK, an exaggeration, but you get the idea) to absorb the blows and endure the slings and arrows of my own goofy decisions, well, steering one of my offspring over the falls would certainly be a lot more painful. And that's before the Lovely Mrs. Smith gets to grade the effort.
In other words, I've got to bring the good stuff. And I'm struck with the overwhelming truth: I've got nothing.
Apparently, I'm not alone in this sensation. It's graduation time, and all over the country fathers are across from their kids, having the most stress-filled conversation after the one involving the birds and the bees. And unfortunately I can't get out of this one by handing her a book and telling her if she has any questions, any questions at all, she should feel free to ask her mother. You mean, everyone didn't do that?
As fathers, we're all asking ourselves the same question. How do you explain to someone the Venn diagram of Dreams and Realities, and that the intersection of the two may not be that large?
How do you let them know that following your bliss sometimes involves some not very blissful things, like spreadsheets and time lines and performance evaluations? That reaching for the stars probably starts with reaching to turn off the bedside alarm at an impossibly early hour? That you can make your dreams come true, but that no one really dreams about 8 a.m. staff meetings? At least in a good way.
Well, if my performance is any indication, you stutter. And stammer. And lose your train of thought. And you try to strike the right balance between enthusiastic exhortation and dire warning. And you hope any of the millions of things you said, many of them actually in your native tongue, either made sense or struck a chord.
And you hope you managed to convey that you love her, believe in her, know she'll do great things and that there are great, important things to be done. Even if, occasionally, she may find herself experiencing the first signs of Death by PowerPoint or realizing that she used to think only coal miners both went to work and came home in the dark.
When I first signed on to fathering gig, I was pretty certain all I really needed to do was the standard stuff. Fight off the occasional wild animal. Run back into the burning house. Leap in front of the oncoming car.
I didn't know I had to do the hard stuff. Like give advice.
Commentary on 05/13/2016