That First Shitty Pancake
At one of my first networking events two toes out of college, I sat at a table in a semi-casual restaurant with what I think was supposed to be a well-intentioned mentor. There were about eight of us at a round table. We all wore variances on respectable networking wear, which included but was not limited to pencil skirts, blazers, complete suits, collared shirts, and blouses with only minimal frills. We all sat at the edge of seats out of nerves. We also were all journalism majors — most of them on the PR track— and we were also too scared to order anything except for our drinks.
Our misbegotten mentor, Nancy as I now call her, sat at ease, talking all the while the server came and went, dropping off Nancy’s burger, refilling our waters, leaving after making eye contact with each of our determined, if somewhat nervous, faces.
I was so jealous.
Nancy went around the table asking in between chews what sort of projects we were working on, and like Instagram, everyone had really amazing lives. There was a singer working on her own website, an intern for the Atlanta Zoo, another music industry intern, and then me.
I can’t even tell you how I explained this shitty website I was working on, but key words included “humor,” “awkward moments,” and how I dealt with those two things. I remember crashing and burning when I saw Nancy drop her pickle spear — she was already done with the burger, having taken gracious bites as she gave feedback to the Zoo intern.
“Why?” she kept asking, completely astonished that I thought that this was a good idea to pitch to her. This was fair. I can’t tell you what Nancy did. I think she was important, but this was years ago. I just remember someone in this networking event suggesting I go join her table because she worked in media, was important, and liked burgers. And because I wanted to be a writer and respected someone who could stomach so much protein during a time like this, I sat with her. I even did it with zest and determination at the time, greeting the other girls who had such good posture and wore full suits with a surprising amount of superiority from someone whose blazer didn’t match her pants.
I was so young. So uninhibited. So broke that I paired a Target blazer with some black jeans I found in my mom’s closet. They were off by a Pantone.
“Who are you to write about awkward moments of your life?” Nancy asked again, swinging around the pickle spear with a more confident grip. Perfect for an actual spear really, except her current choice of weapon was brinier, less pointy, and much more pungent. To this day, pending my mood and time of the month, the pickle scent can send me into a deep, dark emotional hole of doubt.
Now, I’m very good at awkward situations. I used to write a now defunct (spoiler) blog on this very topic, but Nancy was not letting up when I kept defusing the situation with very ill-timed, but thoughtfully conversational jokes. You know, the kind dads get away with at barbecues. They’re not funny but just cheesy enough to keep conversation flowing. These included: “I guess you could read my blog to find out,” or “You’re supposed to write what you know, right?” or “Did I say humor blog? Let’s talk to the Zoo intern again.”
And sympathetic, albeit somewhat encouraging smiles from the seven ladies around me sort of helped but really didn’t. They didn’t turn on me per se, but I knew they were happy I was the topic and not them, because Nancy seriously wouldn’t let up. It’s like this was an unsolvable word problem, and Nancy, who I assume was a not-fun-Ravenclaw, needed answers.
“You should write about horses,” she decided after railing into me without my consent. Nancy liked this idea the more after she said it. “For instance, you would take the topic of horses and cover all you knew about it in blog posts and become an expert on that…” I don’t know what else she said because I started to hate her for ruining pickles for me.
When I realized it was my turn to say something at a very brief part of the conversation, I shook my head. “But I don’t ride horses.” I knew this was beside the point. I knew what Nancy was getting at, but I was uncomfortable ok?
Nancy looked annoyed. “No, but it’s an example — ”
Is now a good moment to tell you I made a pun? “No,” I said and laughed, shaky and sitting on my hands. “I mean neigh!” I looked around to see if my joke landed and all I saw were seven smiling girls, barely making eye contact.
I have no idea how I left that restaurant without peeing myself out of relief.
I pity-cried all the way to the car, as I merged onto the highway, through the check out when I went to get pistachio ice cream at Kroger, and at my sister’s place where I ended up because I wanted someone to laugh at my horse pun.
The point is Nancy’s a bitch.
The end*.
— — —
*Okay, the point really is, you’re allowed shitty pancakes— you were wondering why I titled this about pancakes when there were none to be found in the post, weren’t you? In this instant, my shitty pancake was me trying, in general, to be a writer I’m just not. My blog (RIP Squawkward Blog) got me an internship which helped me get a steady writing gig when I moved to New York. But Nancy lived in my head longer than I liked, and she did dictate a little of what I wrote later. She’s still there, making a house out of my insecurities, building fires out of my ideas, living off of pickle spears. But the more I think about her and that whole, terrible Sunday afternoon (which I will never get back) the more I realize that I really do like laughing at myself and just putting myself out there.
I tried Nancy’s way— maybe not horses but I didn’t write something I enjoyed for a bit— and I burnt out fast. That was my shitty pancake. I guess also this attempt at networking was too. Oh also this first blog post. I guess I made a bad batch.
On the plus side, I’m eating pickles again. I just bought a jar and it’s in my fridge waiting for me to eat Every. Last. One.
