You call this networking? Marketing yourself can be difficult

Networks. No matter how you tweet, tweet, link, face, or space, you have to these days if you want to avoid career suicide. However, with all this online socializing, your ability to meet strangers one-on-one (probably the best networking tool of all) rusts and takes a backseat to your skills. There is no such thing as accidental networking. Networking is a mission. When you head to a function to meet and greet people who can advance your career, you have a strong sense of purpose. Even a chance meeting can provide a networking opportunity.

Once you discover that new acquaintances have professional power, you instantly decide to make the meeting worthwhile. There is no real secret to it. Most people, myself included, hate to admit that we’re networking because then we reveal that we’re actually using the biggest career hack in the world. Maybe we think it smacks of cheating. You know you do; I know you do; others know that you do; and you read that you’re supposed to do it, but you somehow deny that you’re doing it. I mean, only the ones with etiquette issues would introduce themselves saying, “Hi, I’m Jane. I’m here to network.” Oh!

Now, basically I’m shy. Oh, I know I give a lot of seminars and speak in front of hundreds of people, but those one on ones are killers. Chatting with strangers makes me nervous. I never quite know what to say. I solve the problem by avoiding it as much as I can. But following this recipe can lead to a very lonely life, not to mention a lack of contacts. So when I was invited to a book signing party at a very exclusive old money private club (which costs your entire savings account to join, requires a secret selection committee vote and a Daughters of the American Revolution Club) . background), I didn’t know if I should go. I tried to rationalize. I am CEO of a continuing education company and editor-in-chief of three magazines. Members of this select club could become important clients. And obviously someone thought I was worthy enough to grace the hallowed halls of haughtiness. The low? I didn’t know anyone there, so I had no one to hide behind.

Then there was another possible problem. For the last 50 years or so, the club was rumored to be anti-Semitic (not to mention what their attitude was towards other non-majority guys). My grandmother would roll over in her grave if she thought I was considering putting a little finger in this establishment. And now she wanted to go in hopes of advancing my career? He was mad? When I mentioned this to my colleagues, they made fun of me. “That ‘problem’ no longer exists. We are in the 21st century,” they said.

Yes, but in my mind, how long was a long time ago? And did any of the people who had that ‘problem’ long ago belong to the club today? But the critical need to network and the thought of spending one more night just watching “Law & Order” reruns overrode my sensitivity. I made up my mind, perked up my small talk, and headed for the chi-chi club with iron barriers to entry.

I dress in my casual but smart business suit, careful to make it black so people don’t notice the slight weight problem. (Okay, okay, a little more than mild.) I am moving down the road practicing my elevator pitch: “I provide education and timely communications for the legal field.” “Oh, I see, a lawyer. How interesting!”

And then one of those uncontrollable things happens that happens at precisely the wrong time. I start to breathe. I can’t stop. Either I’m too nervous or this is the longest embarrassment ever. Maybe my grandmother has found out what I’m doing. “Oh God,” I pleaded. “Not now.” I turn on the air conditioning. I have one hand on the wheel as I blow waves of cold air onto my face, which is currently dripping with makeup and forming little brown dots on my clean white neck. I’m panicking, but I’m determined to do this. I arrive at the club, take a deep breath, put a smile on my face, nod to the doorman, and walk straight through the mahogany double doors, onto the marble-inlaid floors, and past the authentic Biedermeyer furniture. I am on a mission.

Despite the confidence, the first few minutes after making your entrance can be unnerving. Shall I head to the bar? Do I meet the hostess with more than I have ever met? Do I approach a group that is obviously engaged in appropriate talk and talk? A waiter with a fancy silver tray doesn’t even ask, just hands me a glass of wine. Good. Now I watch the part. As I look around, I realize that the room is packed with potential clients, but even my quick read on “How to Work in a Room” hadn’t prepared me for this crowd. The room is full of Armani and Versace. Poor Anne Klein. It’s the nineties. Her pantsuit looks out of place and I happen to be wearing it. Not brave enough to say hello, I walk over to the table laden with new books by the author. I tell myself that I am making the right first move. After all, this is a book signing party.

Seeing a gentleman sitting behind the table, I assume it is the author eagerly waiting to buy autographs. I decide to help him. “Michael,” I tell him confidently, “who was your favorite character?” The woman next to me huffs and sighs. “This is Andre, dear, the cashier. The author is there with the hostess.” (That’s how she talked, actually.) Oh. Well, one misstep isn’t going to kill me. I approach the hostess and introduce myself. “Oh yeah,” she says gracefully and turns back to the group. “With the NBA playoffs tonight, I really had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to get people to come.” The group laughs. I’m standing there with my glass of frozen merlot in hand. I decide the comment wasn’t directed at me and she’s probably just as nervous as I am. I ignore him and prepare to chat.

The conversation turned to Mr. Harriweather’s trip to Tuscany. I am comfortable now. I have been to Europe. The conversation turns to Paris. We’re home, honey! This I know. I decide to chime in, “Paris”, I sigh and sip my wine slowly. (I had learned three things in the 5 minutes I had been there: sniffing, sighing, and drinking slowly seemed to be important.) “When I did this American Express tour a few years ago…what was that? tsk tsk to my right. The bleached blonde with recent Botox injections and faux pearl earrings is rolling her newly reconstructed eyes and shaking head. Uh oh. Obviously, there’s no American Express travel here.

I quickly change direction. “Oh, I agree,” I say. “The best part of that whole mess was getting to Paris at nightfall and seeing the beautiful lights of the Eiffel Tower.” Phew. That should add up to some points. But the group looks at me weird. I realize that I had started to sweat again and now my mascara has slipped off my lashes and settled in dark circles under my eyes. A couple of people really take a step back. I really want to go. But my guaranteed-fit girdle pantyhose makes you look ten pounds thinner was slowly rolling down my stomach. Obviously, a quick getaway wasn’t going to happen.

The hostess with less than the maximum intervenes. “You know, a nice Jewish girl like me has to be very careful when I travel to Europe,” she trails off. I wonder what all that is about. Why would he even mention that she is Jewish? What point was she trying to make? Did she feel uncomfortable being here? “Oh, speaking of which,” says the ever-enthusiastic Mr. Harriweather in the affected English accent, “whenever I travel through Europe, I always claim to be Canadian instead of American. You know, they don’t hate Canadians there.” .” Well, that’s true. There aren’t enough of them. This was one of those situations where they built an entire country and no one came. But I keep quiet and sip my wine (slowly).

But Mr. Harriweather is not done. I wonder if he knows that tweed jackets with leather elbow patches aren’t exactly GQ anymore. “And my friend who’s traveling with me says he’s Canadian too. And guess what? Everybody buys it and he’s Jewish!” I spit my wine on what’s left of the white of my blouse. He thinks his story is very funny. Now, for starters, I’m already having trouble reconciling the fact that I’m in this dumb club, plus the fact that I’m worried about how to shrink from the crowd because I can’t seem to control this perspiration, along with the fact that the makeup that’s supposed to be on my eyes is now smudged from ear to ear. I can’t control my reaction. “What?” I wait. “Do you really think no one is Jewish in Canada?” The room falls silent. I have a distinct feeling that I just strayed from the playbook guidelines for networking in good taste. In any case, no matter what my personal feelings are, I have definitely gone beyond a misstep.

At that moment a bell rings. “Ah,” says the hostess with more, “it’s time for our author to start her talk.” Saved, I guess. I feel. I notice that no one sits next to me. In fact, I’m the only one in the whole line. Well, I tell myself, maybe I’m getting a little lewd with all this sweat. I am terribly self-conscious. The author speaks. I’m listening. When the author concludes, the hostess announces that it is time for dinner. I get up. I do the only thing available to me. I pretend to briefly go to the bathroom and, without even thinking, walk past the authentic Bidermeyer cabinets, onto the inlaid marble floors, and out the mahogany double doors. I realize there may be some future explaining to do. But of one thing I am sure: I will never again compromise my value system to advance my career.

Hopefully no one has noticed that I’m gone much sooner than they were supposed to. On the other hand, they’re probably relieved after what happened and all. Unfortunately, the valet has lost my car. I wait what seems like an eternity. Finally, he locates it and brings it up. When I’m about to make my escape, I hear “Yooo-hooo!… Oh, Mrs. Esssss-trin!” Captured rats. it’s Mrs. Macintosh, the head of the library committee, coming up to me waving one of those damn books. “You won’t go, will you, dear?” Oh, God, girl, control yourself. Of course, it’s me. “Why not,” I say. “I’m just looking for something.” Yes. My front door. “Well, you’ve left your autographed copy of your book,” she says in her singsong voice. Excellent. A memory of the afternoon.

As I drive home, I realize that I made the right decision in choosing to leave. As much as I wanted to meet new people and get into the networking circuit, this particular scene was not for me. I found myself desperately trying not to be who I really was so I could fit in. What was I thinking? I didn’t need to do that. Would you try networking again? Sure, but by now, I knew that networking doesn’t work unless you feel comfortable, confident, and choose your scenarios wisely. On that, I needed a little work. I decide that next time I will feel more confident and I know what I am getting into. As I drive up to my front door, I begin to feel safe again. I wash off the wine and stained Cover Girl suit, wash off what’s left of my makeup, and plop down into my comfortable Lazy Boy. I count my blessings as I turn on the television. Wouldn’t you know? I’m just in time for another rerun of “Law & Order.”