A SPEAKER'S DILEMMA
The applause abated, my butterflies were
flying in formation, and I was ready to go. Looking and feeling
professional in my tailored navy blue suit with matching low-heeled
pumps, I launched into my three-hour interactive program with one
hundred of the brightest students in our state.
After opening with an engaging introduction of our activities and
absorbing their looks of anticipation, I stepped away from the
podium and momentarily experienced a twinge of fear. Something was
slipping. Pushing the fear from my mind, I walked with purpose to
the first table and actively enlisted their cooperation with the
first stimulating activity.
I could feel their enthusiasm. Everything was going great. This was
going to be my best program yet. And then it happened again.
Something slipped. My mind was diverted for a second as I
accustomed myself to the uncomfortable sensation. Quickly gathering
my wits, I approached the second table to assign the second segment
of the program. It was going great!
The interactive activities were in full swing. Excitement permeated
my being, and once again, something slipped - this time lower than
before and now irretrievable. I was still able to bound around the
room, keeping the electricity in the air, the excitement
flowing.
An hour had passed; only two to go, but I knew my time was
numbered. I didn't have two hours left. Something was going to
happen and happen in the immediate future.
I was across the room from the podium, stirring the flames and
expounding my theories. The kids were alive, but I knew my end was
near. Slipping, slipping, slipping. My panty hose was now even with
my knees. The podium was miles across the room. How could I reach
this safety point and still maintain my dignity? My mind raced, my
voice rose, my panty hose slipped.
With head held high, I pressed my hands into the pockets of my
skirt and surreptitiously pushed downward, attempting to lengthen
the skirt to keep pace with the slippage. With my knees pressed
tightly together, I gracefully pigeon footed my way back toward the
safety of my rescuer, the podium. One step at a time, slowly,
slowly, slowly I walked, knowing appending danger awaited. One
unclenching of the knees and it was all over--ruination,
embarrassment, laughter that would haunt me for all of my days.
Would I make it? Inch by inch I traversed the patterned rug before
me. The faces watched, the voices spoke, the program continued, and
I walked, one tiny step at a time.
Seeing safety within reach, I extended my arm and clutched onto my
salvation. All I had to do was pivot myself around behind my wall
of safety. With knees locked, I attempted to slowly place my left
foot around the corner of this wooden emancipator. It didn't work.
My knees unlocked and the unthinkable happened--slippage below my
knees. With rapid gracefulness, I swung my body behind the podium,
reached down with aplomb and resettled my hose above my knees. I
was safe, as long as I didn’t move, and we proceeded without
anyone being the wiser. Most speakers stay behind the podium for
their entire talks. Why should I be any different?