I don’t know what I’m doing.
Well, that is not entirely true. I am staring at an overpriced painting, with a beverage in one hand and an hor d’oeuvres skewer in the other. This much I know.
I meant “I don’t know what I’m doing” in the way that a boyfriend who has to shop for tampons, or a flight attendant who has to land a plane because the pilots have fainted, or a pilot who has to serve the mid-flight meal because the flight attendants have fainted, means it.
I am at a networking event, and I don’t know what I’m doing. That is probably because the institutions of lower learning that belched me out into reality covered in amniotic Bud Light and iTunes Gift Cards neglected to impart the nuances of one of the most essential life skills known to mankind: schmoozing.
So, instead of circulating the room like the 220 pound social butterfly I wish I could be, I am lurking in the hallway outside The Martini Lounge, staring at mixed-media artwork that looks like it was assembled by interns at Urban Outfitters, wondering why I am such a pansy when it comes to engaging strangers in small talk.
Perhaps I should enlist the services of an elocution specialist, or see if I can audit a class at a Ladies’ Finishing School (do those still exist)?
Then again, I could just start playing the lottery. Like, a lot.